


A Study in Friendship: The Power of Brohood

by Not_So_Austen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Season 3 AU, Slow Build, The Alpha Pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_So_Austen/pseuds/Not_So_Austen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of season 2, Stiles has to deal with the changing relationships within his social sphere while everyone tries to deal with the sudden appearance of an alpha pack, a few other rogue were-creatures who keep stirring up trouble, tracking down Erica and Boyd, and just trying to survive another normally abnormal day in Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Owlett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlett/gifts).



> This is set shortly after the events of season 2 and will be AU once season 3 airs.

With all the fuss about the Alpha pack on everyone's minds they were caught off-guard by the group of ailuranthrope passing through Beacon Hills. 

"And, really, werecats?" Stiles whines. "Why? That is my question. Just _why_?" 

And _of course_ they were just as obnoxious and quick to break out the claws as Beacon Hills' resident pack of lovable teen wolves. Well, occasionally tolerable mostly-teen wolves. 

"Is there something about the emotionally maladjusted that the supernatural is attracted to?" 

Scott glances away from the road long enough to level a look at him and Stiles realises that now is probably not the best time to be talking about this, or probably anything at all. Mainly because Scott's driving skills are worrisome on a good day - and he is very, very tense right now - and Stiles' entire lower left side of his face hurts enough to make him seriously consider physically removing it (and yeah, it's a bad sign when you're following the Derek Hale approach to problem solving, but if Stiles had access to a bone saw right now he'd consider it a viable option) moving his mouth sends jolts of pain shooting through him but he can't seem to stop himself.

"Oh settle down, Scott, I obviously don't mean you," he rambles on. "But really, look at all the other supernaturally-inclined individuals we know."

"Stiles," Scott says in a tone that's half whine, half exasperation which is Scott's Serious Business voice. "I'm more worried about getting you to hospital right now and making sure everyone else is okay."

Stiles knows 'everyone else' is pretty much just Allison and, possibly, Isaac if their recent friendship counts for anything. It's not like Stiles even sees Scott that much anymore when he's either not-so-sneakily sneaking around with Allison or running off with Isaac to save animals and probably to work on their budding bromance and gaze soulfully into one another's eyes like they don't do that enough already. Not that Stiles is bitter. Or resentful. Not at all.

It's just that it's finally vacation and Stiles has only seen Scott three times in the last two weeks and two of those times were werewolf meetings that Stiles still isn't technically invited to. And sure, Stiles can see why finding Erica and Boyd might take some precedence what with the bloody tracks and somewhat terrifying Alpha pack skirting around Beacon Hills. Because it's not like one single Alpha wasn't hard enough to take down, and even then he'd managed to claw his way back from the dead and torment them with his annoyingly awesome sassiness and left everyone jumpy and on edge with the constant worry that he'd return as a main contributor to the rocketing body count in this town again.

Stiles feels dizzy all of a sudden, and it's harder to focus than it usually is. He slumps back into the seat and tries to focus on breathing through it, all those tricks and tips for anxiety attacks becoming handy again. Stiles watches Scott's white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and Stiles knows from the tension in his shoulders and the slight twitching of his neck that Scott is trying to focus on the road, on driving at a fast and safe speed through the storm raging overhead and to not constantly look at Stiles, beaten and bloody in the passenger seat. 

The hospital finally appears in view, a blur of light in the near distance through the sheets of rain and Stiles is relieved even though he knows it'll still be hours before he can go home and crash. It will probably be a while before he even gets to see a doctor. The adrenaline is dying out and Stiles just wants the pain to stop so he can _sleep_. Not for the first time tonight he wishes the ridiculous catman with the tree had managed to knock him out with the branch instead of just breaking Stiles' face. And, really, sometimes Stiles thinks his life might have accidentally collided with some art house film production because how is this anyone's actual life?

In the end Stiles gets the cuts and abrasions across his face cleaned up and his jaw realigned, but he's being sent home with a prescription for pain meds to help with the temporomandibular joint disorder which apparently is going to hurt like a bitch for the next week or so even with the medicine. So he has that to look forward to. Apparently getting his jaw dislocated has pissed off the cartilage, muscles, tendons, nerves, ligaments, essentially every freaking part of his face and it's going to hurt to do pretty much everything that involves Stiles being alive.

Stiles' dad meets them at the hospital, leaving his shift early to do so. The only thing that makes Stiles feel marginally less guilty is that the story he and Scott are sticking to (they were hanging out in the woods when the storm blew in and Stiles got hit by a falling branch) is at least fairly close to the truth so he doesn't have to see that look of disappointment his dad gives him when he knows Stiles is lying to him. That look has been getting a workout recently, at an increasing rate ever since his stupid plan to scour the woods for a half a dead body doomed his best friend to the awesomeness of lycanthropy. The thing that hurts most is that the disappointment is now tinged with resignation. 

As Stiles is falling asleep, finally home and coasting on a cloud of painkillers, he considers that if the werecats strike up as much trouble as Peter Hale had, at least the reports of mountain lions will actually be sort of accurate.

 

"Hey, buddy," says Stiles as he slides into the booth across from Scott.

"Hey," Scott replies with an enthusiastic nod of his head, not looking up from the screen of the phone he is currently texting on with the goofy grin that means he's talking to Allison. The diner's menu is open on the table by Scott's elbow and Stiles drags it over to have a look over his options even though he could probably recite the entire listing from memory. 

"You want the breakfast special?" asks Scott, because Scott always asks that and Stiles always says yes.

"No," Stiles replies, forlorn, eying the image of bacon strips with longing. "I don't think I can handle anything that chew-intensive right now. My jaw is killing me."

"Huh? Why's that?" Scott still hasn't bothered to look up from his phone and that's - well, it's frustrating because hello, best friend here, but Stiles gets it, he does, and he's happy for Scott and Allison and their weird off-again, on-again, actively-hunting-and-torturing-your-classmates-for-being-werewolves-like-you, on-again relationship.

"Well gee," says Stiles, closing the menu and leaning into the cushioned backrest of the bench. "It could be all those five dollar blow jobs I've been giving in the alley on the strip or, just maybe, it's from getting smacked in the face _with a tree_ saving your wolfy asses last night."

"Uh," Scott finally looks up at him, eyes adorably wide and earnest and more than a little guilty, but the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement as he asks, "Five dollars?"

"It's a tough economy," Stiles replies easily and this time the twitch in the corner of Scott's mouth develops into a lopsided smile. 

The tension seems to dissipate after that and, aside from the jarringly painful and swollen half of Stiles' face, it feels like every other school break they've had every year before the nightmare-inducing supernatural shenanigans traipsed into their lives. Which, admittedly, Stiles has kind of enjoyed. Well, the murder and running for his life less so. But it has made life a hell of a lot more interesting.

They talk all through breakfast, which is an exercise in torture for Stiles. Before they even make it halfway through, he's had to tell Scott twice that no, he isn't crying, his eye just keeps watering involuntarily. Scott, for a change, doesn't even mention Allison again and they're still talking about video games that, despite werewolf reflexes, Scott still doesn't have the hand-eye coordination to not completely suck at playing. He doesn't give up though, which is more than can be said about the electric guitar Scott has in his room. 

Eventually they have to head over to Derek's latest haunt. And, really, that is the most apt description considering the places Derek chooses to house himself: he and his pack of semi-impervious super-healers might be fine with rickety, condemned ruins but Stiles can still get tetanus. It's inconsiderate. He tells Derek as much when Stiles trips over the splintered remains of what-the-heck-is-that? as he and Scott enter the abandoned warehouse. 

"Won't somebody think of the human?" he adds. Because _really_. 

"No," Derek replies. Because _of course_. "You're not even invited."

"And yet here we all are," says Stiles with an all-encompassing sweep of his arms.

Derek's only response is to give Stiles the stink eye and ignore him in favour of launching into one of his slightly dramatic diatribes, officially making this the warmest, least violent reception Derek has given him. Stiles is so totally growing on him. It might be a long way off before Derek starts, say, exchanging pleasantries with him, but Stiles will wear him down eventually. 

The meetings are a recent development. The purpose was to form a united front against a common enemy and avoid the disastrous mess that occurred over the whole kanima debacle. But for the most part the meetings turn out to be more like stand-offs with undisguised hostility and barely restrained homicidal tendencies because Derek and Scott butt heads constantly and Stiles can only bring himself to be thankful when they manage to make it through without anyone being torn apart in a more literal and less verbal sense.

Between Scott's refusal to agree to any course of action that could potentially put anyone in danger and Derek's outstanding track record with effective plan-making it is a little surprising when the outlines of something resembling a strategy start to form.

But since it's borne from Peter's suggestion Stiles feels the right to remain highly sceptical, even if it does seem like a decent compromise and gets Derek and Scott to actually cooperate.

"It seems," Peter says in that calm, reasonable-yet-superior tone of his, "that if we are to find your incorrigible missing pack members we will need to gather more information about the Alpha pack and the ailuranthrope before we proceed with a more definite plan. We don't know what either of them want or where they are. I would suggest reconnaissance as the first integral step."

And with that the maps are pulled out and a rotating shift for search and patrol are set up and divided amongst everyone except Stiles who is not gifted with his own set of wolfy-senses to tingle when danger is afoot, and Peter who even Derek has the wherewithal to not fully trust. Peter gets lumped with research duty which is still more of an opportunity for him to screw them all over, in Stiles' opinion.

"Awesome," says Stiles, bringing the focus of the room back to himself. "What do I do?"

"Nothing," says Derek in his I Am A Dick-Bag voice which, come to think of it, is actually his default tone. "You stay home and out of the way, not blundering into the middle of another fight."

"Hey! I do not blunder! Well, okay, I might not exude preternatural grace and I might, maybe, on a few occasions trip over my own feet, but you guys were getting your butts handed to you until I showed up with my carefully prepared cocktail of werecat murder powder."

"You mean Deaton's carefully prepared powder," says Derek snidely. 

"Deaton may have helped a little, yes," says Stiles. "The point is I can help. I do help. There was a time when you'd even crawl through my window begging for my help, that's how good I am at helping."

"I never begged for your help," says Derek. And oh, yep, he's definitely tipping towards the homicidal side of his very, very limited emotional spectrum. Derek is advancing towards him in slow, deliberately controlled movements that are no less pants-wettingly intimidating but at least give Stiles the courtesy of forewarning. 

Stiles backs up until he hits one of the support columns. He registers the warning growl Scott makes as Derek continues to advance towards Stiles, until Stiles is crowded against the concrete at his back and he has an unobstructed view of Derek's epic cranky face, can feel the annoyed puff of Derek's exhale ghosting across his own face, because Derek has apparently never learnt a single thing about personal space or not over-reacting like a creepy, murder-prone douche-bag. This is exactly why, months ago when the original alpha murders went down, Derek was the one being shoved into the back of police cars and hunted through the streets. 

Surprisingly, Peter is the one to step in and defuse the situation with a few smooth words, getting Scott to back down and Derek to turn away from Stiles after nothing more than a lingering look of annoyance. 

Since it results in Stiles being bestowed the honour of using his many natural talents (and access to a police scanner) to listen for any suspiciously supernatural activity the Sheriff's Department is called in on, he feels the meeting is an overall success, even if his heart is still beating a little faster than normal when the meeting wraps up and he and Scott head back to the world of proper furnishings and hygiene standards.

 

"Okay, so it's kind of a crappy excuse for a job, and a complete disregard of my skill set," says Stiles as they pull in to the driveway of the Stilinski residence, "but at least it's better than that time Derek wanted me to cut off his arm, or he needed me to go see his completely catatonic uncle who was significantly less catatonic and a lot more homicidal than expected and I missed my first opportunity to actually play on the field in an actual lacrosse game."

"Yeah, but you got to play starting line in the last game of this season and you totally kicked ass," Scott points out. "Besides, it's not like having to spend hours running laps around the woods any fun."

"Except you like running around the woods," says Stiles as he unlocks the front door and they make their way to the couch.

"Not when I have to pick up my grades for three subjects or miss out on lacrosse this season," says Scott. "And not when there is an alpha pack and freaking werecats trying to kill us."

"Point," admits Stiles. "But you don't have to worry about being murdered in the woods for another twenty-six hours or so. In the meantime, Mario Kart?" 

"You're on," Scott smiles, grabbing a controller for himself while Stiles sets up the console.

Three hours and a truly remarkable amount of soda and junk food later, Stiles and Scott are slumped on the couch, surrounded by enough empty chip packets to write the living room off as a landfill, and Stiles is explaining to Scott exactly how painful his face feels right now, in as much detail and creative analogies as he can manage.

"If it hurts so much to talk," says Scott, "why don't you _stop talking_."

"And deny you the joy and honour of my wit? The world itself would never recover," Stiles replies. "But seriously, I am still keeping 'physically remove the side of my face' as an option. It can't hurt any more than it already does. Plus I think I could really work the Two Face look." 

"Hey," says Scott, sitting up suddenly and turning towards Stiles. "Maybe I can help."

It takes Stiles a minute to work out what Scott is talking about. "That weird pain-sucking thing Deaton showed you?"

"Yeah," Scott nods.

"You do realise I'm not a dog, right?" Stiles eyes Scott sceptically.

"It can't be that different," says Scott. "And it's not like it can get any worse, right?"

"Yeah, okay, give it a go, bro," says Stiles. At this point anything is worth a shot.

Scott leans forward and closes the distance between them on the couch. At first it doesn't feel like anything other than sort of awkward, but then it happens. 

It doesn't feel hot or cool or like the artificial fuzziness of painkillers blocking the feeling and smothering it in a cottony haze. It's like being punched in slo-mo rewind. The aching pain disappearing with a sudden smack of shock and then everything feels _normal_. And after the varying levels of discomfort on top off the constant ache, normal feels amazing. Stiles isn't sure how normal can be almost overwhelming but it is. 

Scott's hand is resting on Stiles' jaw, his eyes closed and nose scrunched up in concentration. Their faces are so close that Stiles starts to go cross-eyed just looking at him, so he sighs and gives in, closes his own eyes and basks in the absence of pain. Scott is the _best_ , even if he has been a little flaky lately. Stiles should send him a fruit basket or an apology cake or something for forgetting how awesome Scott is.

"We don't need to have The Talk again, do we?" Aaaaand dad's home.

"Uh," Stiles intones elegantly, his mouth agape for a moment before his brain catches up. "No, no we're good."

"Hi Sheriff," says Scott, smiling lazy and lopsided and, really, adorably charming.

"Scott," Sheriff Stilinski nods in greeting. "You staying for dinner?" Then, after taking in the state of the living room adds, "Unless you two have already eaten."

"Dad, don't be ridiculous," says Stiles, motioning to the discarded packets and wrappers strewn across the floor and coffee table. "This was almost a half hour ago. We are totally ready for dinner."

"I'll just call my mom and let her know," says Scott.

 

Stiles is screwing around on the internet that night after Scott has left when his dad knocks on his open door. 

"What's up?" asks Stiles, swivelling around on his desk chair.

"Nothing, kiddo," his dad replies, still loitering in the doorway. "It was nice to see Scott over today. He hasn't been around as much this break."

So yeah, great, they were going to have this talk now.

"Well, you know Scott," says Stiles. "He has to re-take some classes and there's Allison --"

"The Argent girl?" his dad interrupts. "I thought they broke up?"

"How do you -- No, wait, I don't want to know how you know that," says Stiles, surprised and more than a little weirded out. "They're back together again. That's sort of what they do. And between studying, seeing Allison and working at the Vet clinic and hanging out with Isaac --"

"The Lahey kid?"

"Yes dad, the Lahey kid," Stiles groans in frustration. "Seriously, can I finish a sentence here?"

"It won't happen again," his dad replies, holding up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. 

"Great, so --"

"I never liked that kid," his dad interrupts again.

Stiles sighs in defeat and says, "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly lining up to be in his fan club either. But he's not really that bad. Now. Which is more annoying."

"Hm," his dad hums thoughtfully. "I'm sure things will work out. You're doing okay aren't you, son?" And Stiles can hear the undertone of concern that slips into his voice. Stiles hates making his dad worry about him and it seems to be happening more and more often lately.

"Yeah, dad. I'm fine," says Stiles and he almost believes himself, too.

 

Stiles is standing in the aisle of the grocery store, a different brand of oatmeal in each hand. He's comparing the nutritional information on the boxes when a very familiar and surprisingly hesitant voice behind him says, "Stiles?"

"Allison, hey," Stiles replies, dropping both boxes into his shopping cart as he spins -- with all the suave elegance he is known for, i.e. none at all -- around to greet her. 

"Have you, uh, have you seen Scott lately?" she asks tentatively, not quite meeting his eyes. They had never been particularly close but the awkward was dialled up to eleven after the very uncomfortable conversation about the extent of Gerard's extreme assholishness. 

"I haven't seen him in days. You've probably seen him more than I have," Stiles replies curtly. Because okay, yes, he does kind of resent Allison even if Scott ditching him isn't really her fault. It's been four days since they hung out and played video games and Scott hasn't even so much as texted Stiles back since then. Well, okay, maybe a couple of reply texts -- but never more than two words and there were only, like, five texts total so they hardly count. 

"But you're his best friend," says Allison, and she looks taken aback which makes Stiles feel like a jerk. Which is probably fair.

"And you're his girlfriend," counters Stiles, although a little less callously this time. "You can't seriously tell me that you and Scott haven't been seeing each other the last couple weeks."

"Yeah," says Allison, after a moment and she looks so lost and sad that Stiles would probably feel bad for her if he hadn't been witness to her badass psycho werewolf hunter trip the other month. Empathy is a little more difficult to muster up when you've been on the receiving end of that sort of thing.

"It's just," she continues, eyes locked on the shelves of oatmeal behind Stiles' shoulder. "We've talked, but I haven't seen him in a few days. And I know he has work and school but he's been blowing off our dates and," Allison glances around nervously and lowers her voice to say, "I've heard dad talking with some of the other hunters and I'm worried."

"And you couldn't just send that in a text?"

Allison scrunches up her face at that. "My dad doesn't want me involved in any hunting business after," her voice catches and she flicks her eyes to lock gazes with Stiles for an uncomfortable moment. "Just after. You know. And I know my cell and my emails are being monitored."

"Well, I can barely get any face time with Scott, it's not like I can schedule a meeting for you two," says Stiles. And oh, there's that resentment letting itself in again. It's like he's emotionally incapable of not being a dick right now.

"That's not," Allison starts, then seems to change her mind, shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts. "I was thinking maybe I could meet up with you sometime and share info? There's a lot going on and I think we really need to work together on this."

"I, uh, yeah, sure, I guess," says Stiles, super eloquently as he fumbles with the handle of his shopping cart. 

It's at this moment that Chris Argent rounds the corner of the aisle looking suspiciously at Stiles and Allison. "Stiles," he nods in acknowledgement. "Allison, it's time go."

"Sure dad," says Allison, smiling with just a gentle upwards curve of her lips that doesn't reach anywhere near her eyes. "I'll catch up with you in a minute."

Mr Argent seems to hesitate for a moment, sizing them up, before nodding and heading back towards the checkouts. 

"I can come by your place tomorrow at five, if that's okay?" Allison asks in hurried whisper.

"Yeah, yeah that's cool," says Stiles. "I'll see you then."

Allison smiles, this time the quick bright smile that's all genuine and makes her dimples stand out in the most unbearably endearing way. Then she turns and walks briskly after her father, leaving Stiles standing alone with his weighty decision over oatmeal brands once more.


	2. Chapter 2

The doorbell rings just as Stiles' dad is heading out for the evening shift. 

"Stiles," his dad calls from the bottom of the interior stairs. "You have a guest."

His dad and Allison are exchanging small talk about the running trails around town when Stiles comes thundering down the stairs. 

"Hey," says Allison, smiling in greeting. She's wearing her running clothes: shorts, baggy shirt and sneakers. Her hair is tied back in a messy ponytail and there's a light sheen of sweat gleaming across her forehead. She's carefully coiling the ear buds around her iPod, however the armband is still strapped around her bicep. Which is ridiculous because they live on opposite sides of town and who the hell wants to run the entire distance from one side of Beacon Hills to other on their vacation? Okay, probably someone whose family hunts supernatural creatures of the night as their own professional mission.

"Alright," the sheriff says, grabbing his keys from the hook on the wall. "I'll leave you kids to it. Stiles," he says in full authoritative parental figure mode. "You make sure Allison gets home at a reasonable hour. I don't want to field any worried calls from Mr Argent, is that clear?"

"Define 'reasonable'," Stiles starts, but is cut off by his father's warning, "Stiles..."

"Don't worry, Sheriff Stilinski," Allison jumps in to save the conversation. "We've only got some vacation homework to go over, so it shouldn't take too long. I'll be home before dinner, but if we run late I'll make sure my dad knows."

"Make sure that you do," he says, firm but kind. "And Stiles?"

"Yeah dad?"

"Stay out of trouble." And with that his dad is gone.

"I guess we should get to work," says Allison, and Stiles leads the way up to his bedroom. Stiles sits in his desk chair and opens the relevant documents for reference on his screen while Allison perches awkwardly on the side of his bed.

"You said you had some information?" says Stiles when he's ready.

"Right," says Allison, shifting on the bedspread and she reaches into her zippered pocket and retrieves her flash drive. Stiles plugs it into the USB port and opens the first file. It's a video recording: dark and grainy like an old security camera in a poorly lit area.

"What exactly," Stiles starts but cuts himself off quickly. "What," he says as he hurries to drag the time elapse bar back several seconds, leaning in towards the screen in concentration. Between what appear to be old warehouses a dark, vaguely reptilian form darts across the screen. It only appears for less than two seconds before it's out of the camera's range, so Stiles goes back and pauses the video. 

"Is that -- isn't that the kanima?" he asks Allison, his eyes still glued to the image on the screen. "But Jackson's a real boy now. Well, a real wolf. Werewolf. Semantics. Point is, he's back to his regular old douche-baggy self with a side of werewolf . All his scales have cleared up.

"So," continues Stiles as he finally tears his eyes away from the grainy picture and turns to face Allison. "What's so important about old footage of Jackson getting his lizard on?"

"Because," says Allison, "that's not Jackson."

 

It's late by the time they finish up, after ten o'clock and way too dark for even someone as capable and occasionally terrifying as Allison to be walking home, so Stiles copies the files to his PC and offers to drive her home. 

They're on the outskirts of the town centre when the police scanner flares to life, crackling out some odd sightings nearby. 

"You mind if we check it out?" Stiles asks, inclining his head towards the scanner on the console.

"No," says Allison, shaking her head. "We should definitely check it out."

They can hear the wail of sirens by the time they turn onto Oak Street. From the sound of it the Sheriff's Department patrol cars are only a few blocks away and moving closer towards Stiles' and Allison's location. 

"What do you think --" Allison starts, but is cut off by Stiles swerving to avoid something dashing out into the street in front of them. The Jeep veers off the road and stops only barely before crashing into the white picket fence of the Donaldson residence, but not before clipping whatever it was that ran in front of them, the impact sending the creature rolling across the side of the hood to land sprawling on the bitumen. 

The Jeep lurches to the side and for one horrifying moment Stiles is certain it's going to roll and he _so_ does not have the money to fix any more damages to his car right now. Stiles barely has time to be thankful when the Jeep rights itself and settles on all four tyres when another form comes tearing out of the tree line and dives onto the person-creature-whatever they hit, both now hidden from view by the bulk of the vehicle. 

Allison is out of the car and firing a taser (and where the hell had she been hiding that?) before Stiles manages to stumble out of the driver's side door. By the time Stiles rounds the side of the Jeep Allison is hauling the unconscious body of one of the werecats off of --

"Oh my god! Erica?" Allison echoes Stiles' own thoughts. Allison drops the hold she had on the werecat's arm once she's pulled him out of the way, but she and Stiles are both too shocked and cautious to try approaching Erica right now. 

There are scratches on Erica's face that are slowly closing in front of their eyes thanks to werewolf fast-acting healing powers, but her hair is matted with blood and debris, her white tank top is torn and stained with grime and blood, and her breathing is ragged, accentuated with whimpers and agonized noises. Her eyes look crazed and wild, flickering around rapidly. There's panic there, and unpredictability. Stiles can see Allison cautiously raising her taser to keep aimed at Erica as they wait, unsure of what to do.

Then Erica's eyes land on Stiles and for a brief, terrifying moment Stiles is convinced that he -- and probably Allison too -- are going to die, torn apart on this quiet road bordering the back of the residential lots for his dad to have to find. And no matter how much of a disappointment Stiles has been over the last few months, he doesn't think for a minute that his dad would be better off without him around. But Erica's eyes lock on Stiles' own and the feral panic seems to fade, replaced with a spark of recognition as her eyes focus on him.

"Stiles," Erica rasps, like the sounds are being torn out of her throat. She shifts on the ground, wincing as she pulls herself into a contorted sitting position. One hand is out to balance on the surface of the road, hands shifting between human fingers and werewolf claws like an uncontrollable spasm. The other hand remains firmly pressed to her abdomen and it's then that Stiles notices, through the grime and blood stains, that even though some of her wounds are slowly sealing themselves together, vanishing into unmarred flesh, there are some that remain open and bloody. Through the blood and torn material of her shirt, mostly hidden behind the press of Erica's hand and arm, Stiles can see the huge gash across her mid-section: running from one side of her body to the other, a gruesome, gaping slash like a horrific parody of a smile. And Stiles can see that the hand Erica is pressing firmly across the wound is to hold it together, to keep the glimpses of viscera Stiles can see under the constant stream of fresh blood from bursting out from between the layers of skin and muscle. 

Stiles turns, stumbles clumsily to the roadside and vomits. He throws up until there is nothing left in his stomach and he continues to dry heave onto the gravel as his stomach continues to contract and spasm long after there is nothing left to be expelled. 

"What should we do?" Allison is asking. "The vet clinic?"

But it's too late for that now and they both know it. The Sheriff's department cruiser has rounded the corner onto the street and there's no way they could have missed seeing the Jeep stopped haphazardly across the lane, both doors left flung wide open. Every deputy in Beacon County knows Stiles, knows his car, and there's no way out of this now.

Stiles is still hunched over by the roadside when the BCSD car pulls up. Allison throws a quick glance to the prone body of the werecat before she cautiously places the taser on the road by her feet and raises her empty hands in front of her as the deputies start to approach them. 

One of the deputies -- Harrison, Stiles thinks, one of the new guys -- is asking "What's going on here?" 

"We need an ambulance," says Allison, because what else can they do at this point? The deputies would call for a bus themselves anyway as soon as they see the bloody, beaten mess that Erica is right now.

"Holy shit," the newbie possibly-Harrison says, which is really unprofessional. Don't they have training for this sort of thing? Although the guy still kneeling beside his own ex-stomach contents probably isn't in the best position to cast judgement. 

"It's Erica Reyes," Allison elaborates. "She's been missing for weeks."

Stiles takes a moment to be grateful that Erica seems to have gained some composure; her hands are very much remaining one hundred percent human and she doesn't look about ready to bite first and pick the pieces of law enforcement officers out of her teeth later. Which is especially good because within moments possibly-Harrison is checking her vitals and starting on the standard first aid questions. 

The second deputy, whom Stiles recognises immediately as Kathy Neil, is checking on the thankfully-human-looking werecat and questioning Allison on the incident. For his part, Stiles only just manages to get to his feet by the time the ambulance and several more patrol cars pull up after several minutes. 

Everything seems to burst into action now. The sirens are mercifully cut but the various lights still pulse and spin as EMTs and deputies start to emerge from their vehicles and spread out along the section of road, checking up on Erica and the anonymous random werecat guy and marking out the perimeter.

No one even tries to speak to Stiles, which is probably good because he's pretty sure that if he opens his mouth to try and speak now he'll just start dry heaving again. He keeps looking at Erica and the glimpses of red and he's convinced himself he can actually smell it now. 

Stiles doesn't even see his dad approaching until he's engulfed in his dad's arms, Sheriff Stilinski's broad shoulders blocking Stiles' view of Erica. His dad pulls back, his hands securely planted on Stiles' shoulders and asks, "You okay, Stiles?"

"Yeah," Stiles answers when he gains control of his own throat. He still finds it hard to maintain eye contact with his dad when he has to lie and the truth is Stiles isn't sure he's really been okay for a while. "Dad, I'm fine."

Stiles' face is mashed into the collar of his dad's uniform shirt, pulled into another tight hug. Because Stilinksi men know that real men hug it out. 

"Dad, I can't breathe," Stiles tries to say, but it sounds more like a jumble of consonants around the fabric of his dad's shirt and when his dad loosens his grip and pulls back Stiles' sees that his attempt at speaking has left a small wet patch of saliva just beside the carefully polished Sheriff badge.

"What happened?" his dad asks and Stiles recounts what happened, minus the crazy creatures-of-the-night parts, and he gets to the part about Allison's mad tasering skills, which his dad looks equal parts concerned and impressed with, when a commotion over by the ambulance catches their attention. 

"Sheriff," Deputy Neil says as she approaches them. "Miss Reyes wants Stiles to ride in the ambulance with her."

They all take this as a cue to look over to where the EMTs are pushing Erica's stretcher into the ambulance where the werecat dude is already cuffed to his own stretcher, still unconscious. Erica is thrashing around and the paramedics as well as a couple deputies are trying in vain to keep her still, to stop her from tearing open the carefully patched wounds before they can get to the hospital and proper medical treatment. 

"They're waiting for the sedatives to kick in," says Deputy Neil. "She must be running on a lot of adrenaline: usually they're completely out by now."

"Yeah," says Stiles. He figures Erica probably just needs something familiar to focus on and get herself under control. Stiles knows all too well what it's like to be taken hostage, though not for as long as Erica and Boyd have, and being beaten up isn't quiet the same as having his guts ripped out, but he knows that having someone there can be that piece of reassurance that gets you through. "Yeah, I'll go with her. Dad, is that," he trails off, looking to his father in question.

"You're a good kid, Stiles," his dad says, and the proud look on his face makes Stiles' chest constrict for a moment. "You go look after your friend. One of the deputies will take your statement in the morning."

"Thanks dad," says Stiles, ducking his head and hurrying off towards the ambulance. 

He stops to check on Allison as he passes her. She's standing on her own now in the middle of the road, looking concerned and a little freaked out, like the strong resolve she's been perfecting over the last few weeks is just crumbling away. If they could actually talk to anyone about werewolves without being committed, Stiles is certain that most of his peer group would be racking up some serious therapy bills over the next decade. The crazy supernatural stuff is cool sometimes, but the intensity and frequent life-threatening horror does start to break you down after a while.

"I'll be fine," says Allison, with a half-hearted attempt at a smile that is in no way reassuring. But she tells him to go and promises to call Scott and tell him to meet Stiles at the hospital.

The trip to the hospital is uncomfortable. Stiles is sandwiched in along the side between Erica's stretcher and a wall full of emergency medical supplies. He's hunched over, there's barely any room for his legs and something is digging awkwardly into his back. Plus Erica has been squeezing his hand from the moment he got there. The only way he knows his hand hasn't been completely severed from his body is the constant pain from her crushing grip. He also suspects there might be a little bit of claw going on. Luckily the paramedic riding in the back with them is too busy to notice.

The tranquilisers don't seem to have much of an effect on Erica and when they pull up at the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital it takes until they're inside and Erica is being wheeled away for emergency surgery for a team of three orderlies to pry Erica's hand from Stiles'.

Stiles isn't sure when he started to care so much about Erica. Especially considering she physically assaulted him with a part of his own car once and then ditched his unconscious body in a dumpster. But he does. He cares about her. He knows this because he's worried about her right now. They're not even that close, they're not even friends. But for some reason it feels like they are. Maybe if things had gone differently they would have been.

The waiting room is no more interesting than it ever is. There are a couple of people down the other end of the room anxiously waiting for news on a loved one and a few hospital workers moving purposefully through the various doors to different wards of the hospital. Stiles' leg seems to be moving of it's own volition, tapping out an impatient rhythm on the squeaky linoleum floor while he flicks idly through the magazines and information pamphlets that he's already gone through several times on previous visits. He has spent far too much time in this waiting room over the last few months. 

Admittedly, Stiles is actually a little surprised when Scott shows up shortly before midnight. Stiles had given up on him after the first hour, and he'd be a little bit more pissed off about it if Scott didn't look so completely wrecked. It makes Stiles feel guilty instead.

"What happened to you, man?" asks Stiles, stunned and concerned, at the same time as Scott asks "How's Erica?"

"You first," says Scott, settling into the uncomfortable chair beside Stiles. And really, what kind of jerk decided hospital waiting rooms should have chairs so painful to sit in? Like people in the emergency surgery and intensive care section aren't suffering enough.

"I was driving Allison home and almost got run off the road by Erica and one of those asshole werecats," says Stiles. "The Sheriff's department were already following them, I guess, and we didn't have time to do anything before they were on-scene. So now Erica's getting her insides put back inside her and the werecat is in lockup."

"Her insides?" asks Scott, looking ashen and making weird hand gestures to his stomach area.

"Yeah," replies Stiles. "Mostly falling out of her."

"You smell like puke," says Scott, tactful as ever, wrinkling his nose his complaint.

"That would be due to the insides on the outside thing," says Stiles. "Do you think we need to get Deaton out here? Or construe a prison break? Werewolves as hospital patients has got to be a bad thing, right? Like for exposure?"

Scott shakes his head. "We can't get her to Deaton: he's been missing for three days. He didn't leave a message, there aren't any signs of a struggle or any unusual scents that I could pick up, Isaac and I have been trying to track him when we aren't running perimeter across the Preserve for Derek."

Stiles slumps down in his seat, exhausted and trying to think. It kind of pisses him off that Scott has not only been ignoring Stiles' inane texts, but he completely failed to even mention this bit of vital information for _three whole days_. That's not a very helpful train of thought right now though. "Is it safe for Erica to be here?" he asks instead. "Does regular medicine even have the same effect on you guys? And when she starts to heal at, like, quadruple the normal rate it's going to raise a hell of a lot of questions."

Scott shakes his head. "Derek says it should be okay for now. It was the Alphas, right? So any wounds made by an Alpha heal almost as slowly as they would on a regular human."

"Huh," says Stiles. "But if you can't get drunk, then pain meds probably have about as much effect as alcohol, right?"

"Right. Which means..."

"Which means I'd hate to be Erica right now," finishes Stiles.

They sit in contemplative silence for a moment, both processing the new information. Then Scott says, "Oh! Derek wants to talk to you. He's waiting in the morgue."

"Seriously?" asks Stiles, raising an eyebrow in question.

 

This section of the hospital is dark and eerie late at night, which is probably why Derek considers it to be a great meeting place. The lights aren't quite bright enough in the corridor, amplified by all the darkened rooms, and Stiles' footsteps are the only thing he can hear. 

The entire Basement 1 level of the hospital runs on skeleton staff during the night shift, so it's unlikely anyone will catch him wandering around in the restricted area. It also means it's unlikely anyone will hear his screams if Derek finally decides to make good on his various threats of bodily harm. Although the idea of someone finding his mauled corpse conveniently laid out in the morgue is somehow darkly amusing. 

"Stiles," Derek greets him when he enters the completely unlit morgue. Stiles nearly trips over his own feet as he jumps backwards in fright.

"Would it kill you to turn some lights on?" Stiles huffs, groping blindly along the side of the wall for the light switch. He doesn't find it and the lights flicker on to show Derek right next to him, finger resting casually on the light switch. If Stiles flails backwards and shrieks, well, only Derek and the refrigerated dead are around to witness it and can their testimony really be trusted?

"Derek," says Stiles, quickly regaining his composure. "The morgue? Seriously? You realise this is a new level of creepy even for you, right?"

Derek is doing that weird smirk thing he's taken to lately. Stiles thinks of it as his Now That I'm the Alpha I'm Also A Smarmy Jerk-Wad expression. 

Derek hasn't moved, scant inches away from Stiles and leaning casually against the wall, smirking at Stiles like some creepy, freakishly sexy, _creepy_ weirdo with a some sort of autopsy kink. It is legitimately terrifying.

"Stiles," Derek says again. His tone is walking a horrifying tightrope between his I Am Flirting With You To Get What I Want voice and his They Won't Even Find Your Remains voice. It should not be as attractive as it really, really is. There is something fundamentally wrong with Stiles' brain and if he lives through this experience he is going to have to sort this out. Probably with therapy and drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.

"What were you and the Argent girl doing?" Derek asks, slinking forward in a casual, fluid, predatory motion that Stiles is far too familiar with. 

"Uh," says Stiles, inching backward to get some much-needed space between himself and Derek, but cutting off his own access to the exit at the same time. 

"Woah," says Stiles, putting up his hands both as a gesture of surrender and a request for Derek to stop stalking towards him which, thankfully, he does. "Allison had some important information."

Derek folds his arms across his chest and quirks his eyebrow at Stiles. One day Stiles will figure out how Derek can make an eyebrow look so demanding but for now it remains a mystery. "And?"

"And what?" Stiles fires back. Derek's face hardens into that impatient glare Stiles is both more familiar and strangely more comfortable with. 

"Okay," says Stiles hastily. "I was going to tell you, anyway. That kanima problem? Still a problem."

Stiles waits for a reaction from Derek but gets nothing more than the Impatient Eyebrow Of Impatience. 

"Obviously it's not Jackson," Stiles continues. "Because he's all wolfed up now. It's - you know how we never found a body? Well, it looks like Gerard's still alive."

This inevitably leads to Stiles having to recount the entire story, including everything he learnt from Allison, while sitting on an autopsy table. He gives a basic overview of the surveillance footage the hunters have compiled as well as the snippets of conversation Allison has overheard. Basically it all amounts to: Gerard is alive, he's some nightmare creature halfway between a kanima and a werewolf and all crazy, but the hunters have been unable to pin down his location.

When he finally finishes filling Derek in on the events of the day, Derek stares at him in silence for a beat then says, "The werecat is in lock up?"

"Yeah, presumably," says Stiles. "Last I heard, anyway. They gave him a quick medical exam then hauled his ass over the Sheriff's station. He's probably in one of the holding cells."

"You're coming with me," says Derek and he strides out of the room. The guy really has a penchant for the overdramatic. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you," says Stiles, even as he trails after Derek in complete opposition to this statement. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"I need to talk to the werecat," says Derek succinctly.

"Okay," says Stiles slowly, like he's talking to a very small child. Or an idiot, as the case might be. "And you're demanding my presence because you love my company?"

"I need more of that - what did you call it? 'Werecat murder powder'?" 

"There's none left," says Stiles. "I used it all the other night. I can make some more, though," he hastens to add. "We just need access the vet clinic."

"You sure you know how to make it?" asks Derek, and surprisingly sounds more sceptical than snide. Which, actually, isn't any less offensive.

"One hundred percent," says Stiles. "Almost one hundred percent. But it's not like you have any other options right now, anyway, right?" 

Derek inclines his head slightly and continues leading the way out of the hospital and into the parking garage, so Stiles takes that as a sign of concession to his point. And maybe also to his prowess as a brewer of things that take down annoying shape-shifters.

"What about Erica?" Stiles asks as they slide into sweet interior of the Camaro. 

Stiles doesn't really expect much of a response but as he puts the car into gear and drives out onto the street Derek says, "There isn't anything we can do for her right now. Scott will let us know when she gets out of surgery." 

Stiles sinks back into the comfortable seat, a godsend after the pain of hours in a hospital chair and the cold metal of the autopsy table, and wonders how they're all going to make it through this mess.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter has taken so long!
> 
> I know Season 3 has started airing in the US but we don't have it here yet. I am trying to avoid as many spoilers as possible because 1) I want to be surprised when I finally get to see the new season, and 2) I didn't want to be influenced too much while working out the time-line and plot points for this fic because I think it's more fun this way.
> 
> This fic is completely canon-divergent now.

"Hurry up," Derek snaps as Stiles rummages through the various vials and containers in the back rooms of the veterinary surgery.

"Do you want this done quick or do you want it done right?" Stiles snipes back. The low rumbling growl Derek let's out is answer enough.

"Quick and right it is," says Stiles. He grabs a few packets of Symplocarpus foetidus from a wooden box and brings them and a precariously balanced selection of vials to the bench in examination room. 

He carefully measures a few of the ingredients into a clean-looking beaker, then sets up a Bunsen burner beneath it and ignites it. Blue flame shoots upwards and the plants and herbs inside the beaker start to meld, a pungent odour quickly fills the room.  
"Stiles," says Derek, he coughs a couple times, harsh and a little phlegmy. "What the hell _is_ that?"

"Symplocarpus foetidus," replies Stiles easily. "Foetid Pothos, Clumpfoot Cabbage, Swamp Cabbage, Skunk Cabbage or Polecat Weed out on the mean streets."

" _Stiles_ ," Derek snaps again, followed by another hacking cough. Derek rubs at his throat with one hand and just glares at Stiles like the total grump he is. 

"Yeah, it's supposed to do that," Stiles assures. Because yes, it does feel a little bit like someone lit his trachea on fire, and that is probably magnified ten-fold with wolf senses. "It's almost done." 

Stiles throws some mistletoe into a mortar and grinds it into a fine powder. Then he grabs a very familiar flower, plucking two small petals of the aconite blossom and grinding them into the mistletoe. 

"You might want to hold you nose for this one, big guy," Stiles warns. He switches off the burner and uses some tongs to lift the beaker from its cradle and empties the beaker into the powdered mixture. A curling puff of pinkish-red smoke erupts from the bowl and then stills.

Stiles pours the powdered compound into a glass jar, snaps the lid closed and holds it out triumphantly. "Voila!"

"And this will work?" Derek asks, sniffing the jar sceptically.

"Almost definitely," says Stiles.

Derek huffs out a resigned sigh. "All right, let's go, " he says, snatching the jar from Stiles' hand and stalking out of the room. Stiles ignores him and heads back into the storeroom.

"What," Derek snaps, totally prissy, walking back into the room when Stiles doesn't follow him out, "are you doing?"

"Grabbing some supplies just in case," explains Stiles, rummaging through the storage cupboard and grabbing boxes and vials in a towering stack in his arms. "We don't know when Deaton will be back and it's _so_ not convenient having to run all the way to the other side of town every time we need some magic murder juju."

"Move. Now," Derek orders, but he doesn't wait for Stiles to comply; he reaches out and grabs Stiles by the collar and yanks him out the door. At least he has the unexpected decency to catch the box Stiles nearly drops in the process.

 

"You aren't going to try to flirt your way in again, are you?" asks Stiles when they pull up alongside the Sheriff's Department. "Because you know that's not going to work if you want to actually get into the holding cells and, what, torture some information out of this guy?"

Derek just stares at him as if that vaguely condescending look even means anything to Stiles.

"Also," Stiles adds, "it shouldn't have even worked last time."

"And you have better idea?" Derek asks in a tone that is about seventy-five percent obvious doubt in Stiles and twenty-five percent challenge.

"Literally _anything_ else is a better plan than that," scoffs Stiles. "Give me five minutes and go lurk around the corner of the building. You better have your phone on you."

"What -- Stiles!" Derek grits out, tipping over the edge into Pissed Off, but he doesn't do anything to stop Stiles as he clambers out of the car and walks straight through the front doors of the County Sheriff's Department.

It doesn't take long for Stiles to schmooze his way past the deputy on desk duty tonight: some quick small talk and the explanation that he needs to pick up something from his dad's office and he's past. It's not even a lie, really, since what he needs are the keys to the cells and key to the key safe? There's a copy kept the sheriff's personal office. The perks of being the sheriff's kid are plentiful when it comes to using the system.

The hard part is going to be getting from the office to the cells at the back of the building, but Stiles figures that's not really his problem. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and dials Derek. 

"Well?" Derek snaps in answer.

"Is that how you talk to the guy helping you break into the Sheriff's Department?" Stiles asks conversationally. "Because you know, I could just decide not to help you and then how will you get in to see this werecat douche?"

"If you don't let me in I will --"

"What? Rip my throat out with your teeth? Pull out my intestines and wear them as a boa? We're on a time limit, dude. Save the empty yet very creatively visceral threats for later. You see the window that's opening?" Stiles says as he unlatches the window at the back of the office and pushes it open. "Get your unfairly good-looking butt in here."

Derek's response comes in the form of a very frustrated huff followed by the sad little _beep_ from the phone to let Stiles know Derek has disconnected. 

The window isn't particularly high -- they're on the first floor, after all -- but a normal person would still scrabble a bit to get through it, would have to rest their weight on the sill to lever themselves through. But not Derek. He climbs through with a casual ease, doesn't even make a sound as he does so. It's both impressive and freaking irritating. Stiles is adding it to his mental list of things he hates about werewolves. Specifically Derek.

Derek who is now making a face that looks a lot like someone coated his Skittles in vinegar and he just ate a mouthful at once. 

"This," says Stiles holding up the key in display, "is the key to the key safe."

" _Ah_!" Stiles admonishes and jerks his hand back out of reach when Derek tries to snatch the key. "How about a 'please' or a 'thank-you', huh?"

"How about you give me the key and I let you keep your hand attached to your wrist?" 

"You know, there's an old saying about biting the hand that feeds you and how you really, really shouldn't," says Stiles because he's the kind of guy who likes to take the cheap shots whenever they present themselves.

Stiles doesn't even see it happen, though he really should have expected it, when in the blink of an eye Derek's hand snaps out to grasp Stiles' wrist. Derek leans in and raises a mocking eyebrow at Stiles as he plucks the key from Stiles' hand. 

Derek gives Stiles an infuriatingly smug look and then lunges forward right into Stiles' face and snaps his jaws in the space between them like a warning bite from an agitated dog. Stiles flinches backwards instinctively, his neck jerking painfully with the action. 

There's a moment where Stiles is frozen in something like fear and his heart is just going nuts, hammering in his chest like an enthusiastic kid going to town on a drum kit for the first time. Then Derek is pulling away and Stiles catches the slight upwards turn of his lip, somewhere between a smirk and barely-concealed amusement and it startles a short, breathy laugh out of Stiles.

Derek lingers by the office door, listening intently before he pries it open a sliver and motions for Stiles to lead the way. Stiles slips out into the hall and quietly directs them to a room just behind reception. 

There are always fewer deputies on staff during the night shift, however after the recent massacre they really tightened ship. So even though quite a few deputies are out on patrol, handling calls or investigating what happened to Erica, there are still more deputies in the building than there ever would have been at this time of night even as soon as six months ago. Add that to the fact that Stiles and Derek are now in a heavily trafficked area of the station and it is enough to give Stiles a panicky adrenaline boost. Luckily this is comfortable territory for Stiles and if worse comes to worse and they get caught, well, he always has Derek to pin the blame on.

Stiles is heading for the secure locker when a strong arm grabs him around the waist and drags him back, a hand -- Derek's to be specific -- clamps down over Stiles' mouth, quashing the surprised "Wha-?" that escapes. Derek pulls Stiles down behind a row of filing cabinets, crouching them low to the floor. Stiles struggles and squirms to break out of Derek's impossibly firm embrace, but Derek tightens his grasp and pulls Stiles back against the cabinet with a dull metallic _thud._

"Don't move," Derek whispers quiet and harsh into Stiles' ear, his breath is warm and slightly stale and Derek is way too close for comfort right now. Stiles is about to attempt to break out from the Derek full-body manacle when the door on the other side of the room opens and footsteps sound, muffled but audible, across the carpet. 

There's the jangle of keys followed by the sliding scrape of a filing drawer being pulled open. Stiles has never been good at judging distance by sound, but he's pretty sure that it is very, very close.

It feels like an eternity passes before the rustling of hanging files finally stops, the drawer slides closed and the scrape of the key being pulled from the lock is promptly followed by retreating footsteps. Unfortunately the door doesn't click shut and they can hear the deputy interceded by another passing deputy in the hallway.

Three minutes of being force-cuddled at Derek's side while listening to these two deputies discuss the many variances of different potting mixtures, of all things, is more than Stiles has patience for. 

So he takes action.

Stiles licks the hand Derek has clamped over his mouth. It has the immediate reaction of Derek jerking his hand away and looking at Stiles with complete unabashed disgust. It also manages to catch Derek off-guard, allowing Stiles to finally squirm out from Derek's arm and scuttle across the floor to the opposite wall.

Derek manages to convey a very detailed threat of violence to Stiles' person using only the power of his impressive eyebrows and angry bulging eyes. It might be intimidating if Stiles weren't out of arms reach, and from the relative safety of the other side of the room it just looks ridiculous. Really, though, between the threats of physical violence, actual physical violence, and disinclination to actually share vital information is it any wonder that half Derek's pack ran away and no one else really trusts him? With the possible exclusion of Isaac, Stiles isn't entirely sure.

With his newly acquired ability to actually move, Stiles peers around the side of the cabinet he is currently crouched beside to get an idea of what is going on. Deputy Carter hasn't even fully exited the room, standing in the doorway and talking to another deputy Stiles can't quite see out in the hall. But Carter's back is to them and Stiles is fairly sure he can make it to the key cabinet and back without anyone noticing.

He just needs the key.

"Derek," whispers Stiles, so quiet he barely hears it himself, the words little more than an angry puff of air. "Give me the key."

Derek, who is still looking at Stiles like he's considering the best method of body disposal, mouths back a very indignant "No."

Stiles flails a bit, hands gesticulating wildly in a way he hopes conveys the urgency of the situation. "Come _on_! Just give me the key."

It takes a bit of back and forth between Stiles and Derek's eyebrows, but finally Derek caves and tosses him the key. But not before mouthing something that looks a lot like 'If you screw this up you're on your own'. Yeah, right. If Stiles gets caught the first thing he's doing is giving Derek up. It's not like Derek can exactly retreat unnoticed from the room if two deputies of the law are looking in his direction. He wouldn't even need to lie, really. Derek had, after all, practically kidnapped him and dragged him off on this quest which Stiles had at least voiced some objection to.

Keeping an eye on the doorway, Stiles creeps along the rows of filing cabinets. He stays low to the ground in some hideous hybrid between a crawl and a crabwalk until he finally reaches the key locker. The locker is tall: taller than Stiles by a small margin, and there's just enough space for Stiles to slide in between the locker and a stupidly placed potted palm. So when Carter starts to turn, moving to stand side-on in the still open doorway, Stiles slides carefully into the available space, one foot awkwardly resting in the plant pot out of necessity while he tries not to rustle the foliage.

He can see Derek down the other end of the room as he leans out from his hiding place to give Stiles his You're An Idiot face. Stiles ignores him because Derek is wrong: Stiles is a _genius_. 

It's an awkward angle, but Stiles manages to twist himself to peer around the side of the locker, uses his left arm to reach up and slot the key into the lock and turns. He pulls the door open slowly and the hinges creak out a dull wail that has Stiles wincing in trepidation. Derek's looking at him now with something more like horror -- and maybe concern? -- than outright anger. Stiles makes sure he keeps an eye on the doorway until the locker is open enough for him to reach the key he needs but no one seems to have noticed yet. 

The key is easy enough to get. They're all clearly labelled and the keys for lockup are hanging in the very top row. Stiles hesitates for a moment then pulls out the master key for the cells, just in case. He closes the door and winces with every grinding complaint of the hinges. He's prematurely congratulating himself on a job well done when the very simple act of removing the key from the lock sends him off-balance. He catches himself quickly enough, but not without crashing into the potted palm, knocking a few loose fronds out as he goes. 

There's no chance of getting out unnoticed now, so Stiles doesn't bother trying to squeeze back into his hiding place. Instead he fumbles his way out of the palm tree (and seriously, he is being assaulted by shrubbery all over the place lately) and, as nonchalantly as possible after having been caught falling out of a pot plant in back room of a Sheriff's Department, Stiles strolls over to the deputies whom he now has the undivided attention of. 

"Hey," says Stiles, waving one hand in greeting as he casually slides the absconded keys into his pocket with the other. "You haven't seen my dad around anywhere have you? He isn't in his office."

"No, kid, he's out handling an incident," says Carter easy enough, but he eyes Stiles with suspicion, "What are you doing back here?"

"Just taking a shortcut," Stiles replies with a shrug.

"Come on then," says Carter stepping out into the hall and motioning for Stiles to follow him out. Stiles does, and very surreptitiously pulls the keys out and places them on the edge of the photocopier as he passes. He steps out into the hall behind Carter and the other deputy Stiles doesn't think he's ever met before and closes it behind him. 

Stiles makes a point of saying goodbye to the staff on reception duty before heading outside. He walks down the street at a meandering stroll then, once he hits the corner of the block, doubles back through the shadows and climbs in through the Sheriff's office window to wait for Derek. 

 

Derek takes his sweet-ass time, so Stiles is pages deep in a case file about the recent animal mutilations that he found in his dad's desk drawer when Derek finally shows up, dramatically grim as ever and drops the key on the page Stiles has been poring over. 

"You put the other key back?" Stiles asks, stuffing the loose pages back into the file-folder. 

"Erica's out of surgery," Derek says in reply. Which, okay, is important but not what Stiles asked.

"How do you know that?" Stiles asks, digging his phone out of his pocket to check it and, nope, not a thing. "Scott hasn't called me."

"He texted me," says Derek, heading for the window. 

"What?" Stiles is a little dumbfounded by this. Because seriously, _what_? "Why would he text _you_ and not me?"

"I don't care," says Derek. "You can change your relationship status on Facebook later but right now there are more important things than your own little jealous snit." And with that Derek is leaping out the window because climbing through is far too pedestrian for werewolves.

 

"Did you actually just say 'snit'? What is this the 1900s? You sound like a matronly old lady." Stiles clambers after him and carefully closes the window behind himself. "And what do you even know about Facebook? Oh my God do you have one? Please tell me you have a Facebook account. That is just too weird and awesome."

"Shut up and get in the car," Derek replies with an irritated muscle tick of jaw.

Stiles gets in the car but he very pointedly refuses to shut up the entire drive. The next thing Stiles knows Derek is stopping the car and no, this isn't right at all. 

"What are we doing at my house?" Stiles asks. 

"I'm dropping you off," says Derek, like Stiles is an exceptionally stupid child when really Derek is the one being obtuse. 

"Yes," says Stiles, mimicking the exaggeratedly slow way Derek spoke to him. "I can see that. But why are we at my house. What about Erica? You know, blonde; hot in a terrifying way; you made her a werewolf and now she's been torn apart? Is this ringing any bells for you Derek? We should be at the hospital."

"No," says Derek simply. " _I_ should be at the hospital. You should be here, at home."

"Oh, I see how it is," Stiles is verging on ranting because he is so fed up with this shit. "You need someone to tag along for criminal activities, or amputate body parts, or walk head-first into near-death emotionally traumatising situations and I'm a necessary part of the team whether I want to be or not. But at the end of the day it's all 'Stiles can't visit his friends in hospital, don't give Stiles vital information or let him investigate even though he is _way_ better at research and problem-solving than me. _No_ , Stiles has to stay home and wait until we can throw him blindly into danger again'."

"Stiles," Derek is annoyed, clearly, but his tone lacks the usual edge. Stiles would hesitate to call it soft, but it's something close. "Go home, Stiles. Sleep, wait for your dad, whatever. There's nothing you can do at the hospital: you won't be allowed to see Erica until visiting hours anyway."

 _And, huh,_ Stiles thinks to himself. _This is Derek being nice._ The thought throws him off enough that he manages to mumble something vaguely affirmative-sounding as he exits the vehicle. He's halfway up the drive when Derek calls after him, "The warehouse, two o'clock," and then the sleek black Camaro is down the street and rounding the corner out of sight and Stiles is still just standing there, feeling kind of hopeless.

Stiles shrugs it off and makes his way upstairs to his room to crash.

 

The smell of bacon cooking is like an olfactory orgasm to Stiles' sleep-hazy brain as he trudges down the stairs far earlier in the morning than he is in any way happy with. Despite the mouth-wateringly perfect bacon scent in the air, Stiles is still surprised to enter the kitchen and find his dad making a hot breakfast: bacon, eggs and pancakes included. They rarely do anything that could actually be considered cooking because they're both sort of terrible at life in that way. The Stilinski household has been the definition of a bachelor pad when it comes to the kitchen over the last few years. They get by on take-out and anything that can be made ready by either adding milk or nuking it, with new healthier alternatives for Stilinski senior of course. So Stiles is both elated and extremely suspicious. Mostly suspicious.

"So, I heard you stopped by the station last night." Stiles almost drops the plate he's holding

"Uh... maybe?"

"The interesting thing," his dad continues, "is that Sharon was on reception last night and she said that you told her you needed to pick up something you left in my office."

"Yeah, uh, I thought I left a book there. For school."

"You haven't been to the station in over a week and you don't go back to school for another few days. What book could you have left there for so long that you suddenly needed with great urgency at one in the morning?"

"Well," Stiles tries to think of a reasonable explanation but knows he's going to miss it by a mile. "You know, I was just overcome with a sudden yearning to enhance my knowledge and I know how important my schooling is to you n--"

"The _other_ interesting thing is that Dave Carter told me you were there looking for me," his dad stares him down. This is one of the serious disadvantages of having a parent in law enforcement: they're well-versed in interrogation and intimidation. "Even though you knew I wouldn't be there. I want the truth this time Stiles. What were you doing lurking around in the file rooms?"'

"First of all I object to the term 'lurking'," Stiles starts, trying to deflect.

"Stiles. Cut the crap." They stare at each other for a minute, eyes locked, and Stiles' doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do now. His dad is looking at him with so much visible disappointment that it aches. Stiles knows his dad won't take another crappy explanation from him: he has that dogged intent look on his face that lets Stiles know he won't stop until he gets answers. 

"You've been in a lot of trouble lately," his dad continues. "Breaking and entering, showing up at crime scenes, kidnapping a classmate. The _restraining order_ , Stiles. What is going on?"

"Dad, I," Stiles' voice breaks a little. His throat feels tight, like there's a boa constrictor of emotions slowly chocking him to death. "Honestly? The truth is I just -- I was worried about Erica and I couldn't do anything just sitting around at the hospital _waiting_ and I wanted to find out who did this to her."

He looks guilty, he knows he does, but his dad reads it as guilt about lying to him and about his legally dubious attempt to acquire information instead of having to lie to his dad about everything in his entire life again.

"And you thought illegally obtaining information and reading confidential reports was the right course of action?" his dad pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Stiles, I know you want to help but this is a police investigation and it has to go through the Sheriff's Department. You don't get to decide which rules do and don't apply to you, even if your heart's in the right place. You can't keep doing this, Stiles, or we're going to have a very serious problem. I don't want to be forced to arrest my own son, and more than that I don't want to see you get yourself hurt. Are we clear?"

"Yeah, dad," says Stiles, putting his empty plate on the counter and going in for the hug. "I'm sorry."

His dad hugs back with one arm, the other still holding a greasy spatula. "I know, kid."

The eggs end up a little over-cooked but it doesn't really matter.

 

Stiles' dad gives him a lift into the Sheriff's Department so that Stiles can give his statement. Afterwards Stiles mopes in the visitor's chair in his dad's office and waits for Scott to come pick him up for their paranormal powwow because apparently Stiles' vehicle is going to be impounded as evidence for an unknown amount of time. It could be for several weeks, he was told. Which is just awesome. Really. 

He hasn't even had the chance to check up on Erica at the hospital. Well, he could have walked or caught the bus but the dedication to their non-friendship Stiles had felt the previous night was not quite so strong after sleeping on it. Besides, Derek of all people had actually bothered to send him a courtesy text earlier in the day to let him know Erica was doing fine. 

Stiles is wallowing in his own personal misfortune when his dad leaves to get a refill of coffee. Stiles watches him disappear around the corner and then Stiles is out of his seat and over the other side of the desk quickly scanning over the file his dad had been reading. Any potential guilt Stiles might feel is assuaged by his reasoning that if his dad didn't want him to read it, then he wouldn't have left Stiles unsupervised with it.

It's mostly stuff Stiles already knows, except that apparently the werecat is a middle-aged guy from Maine named John Smith. And that really just sounds suspicious: no one is really named John Smith. Stiles barely glances at most of the medical report which mostly details Erica's and John Smith's injuries until a phrase in the werecat's report catches his eye. He doubles back and reads the section from the beginning.

A strip of foreign biological material measuring approximately 130 mm in length was retrieved from between the number 14 and 13 molar and premolar. Blood type does not match the patient, John Smith. Material tests as human. Awaiting further tests, however forensic evidence gathered from both patients suggests the possibility of anthropophagy. 

Stiles' phone goes off to let him know Scott's outside waiting for him in the mom-mobile so Stiles' carefully sets the files back the way he found them, grabs his bag and hurries out into the hall. He narrowly avoids a collision with his dad as Stiles runs around a corner into the main hall.

"You leaving?" his dad asks. He doesn't look concerned that it is only his own sharp reflexes that prevented him from wearing his fresh cup of steaming hot coffee about two seconds earlier.

"Yeah, Scott's waiting for me," says Stiles. "I'm not sure what time I'll be home," he adds, which is true. And "I might stay the night at Scott's," which is not quite so true.

"All right," his dad says, stepping around Stiles to continue on back to his office. "Just let me know what's happening."

"Sure thing," Stiles calls back down the hall after his father. Then Stiles is hurrying out of the building as fast as humanly possible. This is going to be one hell of a meeting.


	4. Chapter 4

The look on Scott's face when Stiles announces to the room the findings from the medical report would be highly entertaining if not for the context of the situation.  
   
"That's," Derek, for his part, actually looks genuinely disgusted and shoots a look over at Peter. "That's not normal," Derek tries again, making a face with his eyebrows all furrowed in some emotion Stiles can't quite decipher.  
   
"It is certainly," Peter pauses for a moment, thoughtful like he's weighing up the right choice of word, "unusual."  
   
"It's good to know you draw the line somewhere," Stiles retorts, dry and sarcastic. Across the room Scott eyes him with disapproval. And come on, really? It isn't enough that Scott ditched him almost immediately upon arriving at this Workplace Health and Safety nightmare in favour of cozying up to his new pal Isaac, now Scott's mad at him for talking back to the douchewolves? This goes against the foundations on which their friendship is based. This is a _betrayal_.  
   
"No," Peter clarifies, flipping open his laptop at the makeshift desk and presumably scrolling through his super secret werewolf files. "It's unusual for them to hunt or attack a human on a night where there is no full moon to sway their control. It's even more unusual for one to attack a werewolf, even injured as Erica was."  
   
"Do you think they could be…" Derek trails off, looking at Peter with concern. And wow, that's not troubling at all.  
   
"Feral?" Peter asks, quirking an eyebrow. "More than likely."  
   
"What does that mean?" Scott demands, looking between Derek and Peter but the pair of them are too preoccupied staring at each other with increasingly worrying expressions on their faces. Seriously.

"Derek?" Isaac steps away from the wall he has been leaning against by Scott's elbow, hesitantly confrontational like a kid who thinks they're about to get in trouble. There's something about Isaac that draws people in. After he finally got over his douchewolf posturing phase it increased ten-fold. Stiles isn't sure if it's the angelic mop of curls or the dazzling grin, but something about Isaac makes people want to just be around him. Even Derek is less of a dick when Isaac is around. Stiles must be immune, however, because he doesn't care how attractive and adorable Isaac is, Stiles still kind of hates him a bit. Best friend-stealer that he is.  
   
"It means things are going to get a lot worse," Derek finally answers, really not explaining anything at all. Typical.  
   
"The attacks on the Preserve are going to move further into town," Peter elaborates, picking up Derek's slack. "It won't just be squirrels and deer anymore."  
   
Stiles had been unfortunate enough to see a few of the animal remains the werecats have been leaving scattered around the Preserve and it was not a pleasant sight.  
   
"They'll get more violent as they go," Derek joins back in. It's almost like a 'scary' campfire story. The comparison makes it harder for Stiles to take it as seriously as he probably should, what with Gloomy von Wolfensulk's very dramatic and serious words of caution.  
   
"They don't have a conscience," Derek continues. "They're driven by the need to hunt and kill in the most violent way possible and they won't stop."  
   
 It sounds to Stiles like the trailer for a B-grade horror movie: coming to cinemas this summer. It's astounding how Derek manages to be both intensely seriously and ridiculous at the same time.  
   
"So kind of like when Peter was running around as psychotic Alpha?" asks Stiles, earning him a warning glare from both Derek and Scott which is completely undeserved, thank you very much. Isaac, however, is ducking his head and clearly fighting back a smile which almost makes Stiles like him. Almost.  
   
"Oh no," Peter replies genially. "I'm afraid this is much worse than me."  
   
The look on Derek's face suggests that he very vehemently disagrees with that assessment, but he refrains from commenting on it.  
   
"Is there any way we can help them?" asks Scott. "Make them stop killing?"  
   
"Yes," replies Derek succinctly. "We kill them first."  
   
"There's got to be something we can do," Scott insists.  
   
"We can let them slaughter their way through town and wait for them to move on," says Derek, really getting his sass on. It's actually a good look for him. "Or we can take them out before anyone else gets hurt."  
   
Scott looks ready to start something, just when they've been going so well, too. So Stiles diverts the conversation with a hurried, "So, what exactly makes you werepeeps go on this sort of unstoppable murder spree?"

As a distraction it works: Scott and Derek don't look like they're about to start an impromptu werewolf fight to the death. Unfortunately it means Derek has transferred his Your Death Is Imminent expression to Stiles.

Before Derek even gets the chance to reprimand Stiles for whatever stupid thing has managed to upset his delicate werewolf sensibilities, Scott's phone goes off and deftly steals the attention of the entire room.  
   
"What have I told you about texting your girlfriend during meetings?" Derek says, sounding so incredibly prissy that Stiles barely manages to bite back a laugh. It ends up sounding like Stiles is choking on his own tongue, but no one pays him any mind.  
   
Derek has made it abundantly clear at every opportunity to remind Scott of his disapproval of dating Allison, as if he somehow gets a say in the matter. Stiles is pretty sure a small part of Scott's insistence on dating Allison is to spite Derek. Although that's really not an opinion Stiles plans on sharing any time soon. Scott has been doing a good enough job distancing himself of his own accord without Stiles callously driving a wedge between them.

"It's not Allison," Scott replies with astonishingly little annoyance as he taps away at the touch screen. "It's my mom. Erica's parents are taking her home early. They've just signed her out now."

"Scott, Isaac," Derek says, authoritatively. "See if Erica can remember anything important."

Scott rolls his eyes but heads to the door without complaint, Isaac sauntering along beside him like he's walking down a perpetual runway for smug, ridiculously attractive jerks Stiles can hardly compete with. 

Stiles trails after them only to choke painfully when the collar of his shirt is snagged, digging suddenly into his windpipe and almost tripping him up in alarm. 

"Where are you going?" Derek asks, not letting go of Stiles' shirt.

"To talk to Erica," Stiles replies. The unspoken 'duh' heavily implied in his tone.

"Scott and Isaac can handle that on their own," Derek informs him as he turns Stiles around and nudges him towards the formation of empty crates masquerading as furniture in the middle of the dingy warehouse floor."Since you're so interested in the nature of shape-shifters you can help Peter go through his library."

Stiles sighs and slumps down onto one of the make-shift chairs. Scott catches his eye from where he's loitering in the doorway and Stiles appreciates it, that Scott didn't just walk off without him, but Stiles shakes his head and waves him off. Scott hesitates for a moment longer, face scrunched up like he wants to say something, but Isaac rests a pam on Scotts shoulder and with a shrug and half-wave goodbye they both disappear outside. The echo of the door slamming shut behind them reverberates around the warehouse in their wake.

"Here," says Peter, sliding an external hard drive across the table to Stiles. "You can look through these. I trust you brought your laptop with you?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighs, rising to his feet. "It's in my backpack, hang on."

While Stiles retrieves his Macbook from the small office by the front entrance he briefly considers just walking right on out. But his insatiable curiosity wins out fairly quickly. Who knows if he'll get the chance to look through Peter's compilation of supernatural info again? And besides, it's almost like a step towards Derek actively including him as part of the group. Stiles isn't one to look a gift wolf in the mouth, even if this particular gift is wrapped in unpleasant prospect of being stuck in the company of Hales for a while.

Stiles returns to the main floor of the warehouse to find Derek pulling his jacket on and heading past Stiles to the door.

"Woah!" Stiles exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger at Derek. "Where are you going?"

"Out," Derek replies with his trademark loquaciousness. 

"You can't leave me here with Peter," Stiles protests.

"Yes, I can."

"You're not seriously leaving me with Peter."

"Yes, I am."

And wow, this is so not okay. 

"This is so not okay," says Stiles. "You do remember he tried to kill us all on various occasions, right? Not to mention the kidnapping and general creepiness."

"He won't hurt you," Derek says, but it is pretty much the least reassuring thing ever.

Derek looks pointedly at Peter who sighs in a very put-upon manner and assures, "Murder is not on my agenda for the day."

"I feel like now is the time to definitely mention the kidnapping. Also the maiming," Stiles replies. 

"I promise not to murder, maim or kidnap anyone," says Peter sounding entirely bored and not even deigning to look up from his laptop screen. "Today," he adds, like the worst afterthought ever.

Derek just pins Stiles with a look that says 'there, problem solved' which is so far from an accurate representation of events that Stiles can't even begin to explain it.

"I am not okay with this," Stiles tells Derek, then turns to Peter and informs him, "I don't like you and I don't trust you."

"I appreciate your honesty," Peter replies easily. "In the spirit of sharing, for the record I happen to like you."

Derek's bitch-face at that pretty much sums up Stiles' feelings on the matter, but he still feels the need to add, "I am really not okay with this."

"You'll be fine," Derek says, and punctuates the statement with a guttural growl and flash of red eyes at Peter.

"If you're done," says Peter, "I have some research to do."

Derek shoots another quick look at Stiles before he seems to decide he doesn't care and stalks out of the warehouse like the badass he pretends to be, effectively and somewhat literally leaving Stiles for the wolves.

"Relax, Stiles," Peter says. Which is the least relaxing thing ever. If Stiles had a hope of relaxing before this pretty much killed it dead and then left its remains on display as a warning. "I won't bite."

"Past experience dictates otherwise," Stiles points out.

"My offer would still be on the table, you know," Peter says. "However, since I'm no longer an alpha what could I possibly gain from biting you?"

"I don't know," says Stiles. "Probably something terrible for everyone else."

Peter doesn't seem inclined to respond further and Stiles eventually boots up his laptop and plugs in the hard drive. His first course of action is to copy all the files across to his laptop, just in case his research privileges are revoked at some point. Then he gets to work, ensuring he keeps a nervous eye on Peter. But the minutes stretch out into hours and Stiles' guard slips as his attention focuses on the array of information he now has access to. 

He's reading a fascinating if somewhat disturbing chapter on the details of inter-special mating trends over the last several centuries when an amused snort sounds from right next to his ear. With a shout that sounds something like 'Geeyaaaargh' Stiles reels sideways with such force he winds up smacking his hip into the cement floor before hurriedly standing upright again to face Peter who is peering at Stiles' screen, right behind where Stiles had been sitting mere seconds ago. Stiles' heart is still jackhammering fiercely in his chest when he looks to Peter and asks, "Seriously? Is creepiness a genetic trait in your family? Or did you and Derek attend the same seminar on using your ninja werewolf powers for strategic heart attack-inducing lurking?"

"Fascinating as this is," says Peter with that dry amused tone that makes Stiles want to punch him the face. Or, rather, makes Stiles want someone whose hand wouldn't break on impact to punch him the face. "It doesn't get us any closer to the information we need."

"Well," Stiles pulls himself upright in an attempt to restore his dignity. "You can't really know that for sure yet. It might be vital later. It might be the one piece of information vital to our ultimate victory."

"Mating patterns of inter-breeding shifter sub-species is the lynch pin tying recent events together?" Peter quirks a condescending eyebrow at Stiles. 

"This is Beacon Hills. Weirder things have happened."

Stiles checks the time after that. It's getting late and there's only so much of Peter Hale's invasive creepiness a guy can take. Seriously. He and Derek have absolutely no respect for personal boundaries. Peter offers up a faux-disappointed "So soon?" as Stiles packs his stuff into his backpack and hightails it outside to ebbing daylight and sweet, sweet freedom. 

It takes Stiles a good hour to walk home and he trudges straight to his room. He shoots a text message to Scott asking about Erica and digs right back into the files. Hours pass and Stiles doesn't hear back from Scott. He takes his scheduled round of medication, pours himself a bowl of cereal for dinner and has an epiphany, hurriedly unlocking his phone and thumbing through the contacts list.

"Hey Allison," he greets when she picks up, dribbling milk from a hastily swallowed spoonful of nutritionally balanced wholewheat flakes and macadamia pieces that will never be Cocoa Puffs, no matter how much he mentally wills it so. "I know you don't exactly want to hear from me," he says, remembering what Allison had told him about her calls being monitored.

"Of course not, Stiles," she assures, which Stiles takes as an invitation to proceed with caution. "What's up?"

"Have you spoken to Lydia recently?"

"Um," Allison hesitates, clears her throat uncomfortably. "Not since -- not since the night with Jackson and… you know."

"RIght. Yeah. So, uh, you wouldn't be okay with asking her for a favour then?"

"Sorry, Stiles. I don't think she really wants to see me right now."

Uh, Thanks anyway. Bye," Stiles hits 'end call' before Allison has a chance to respond and returns to his cereal, chewing hurriedly. He'd just have to go see Lydia himself and hope she was feeling in an accommodating mood.

Stiles tries to call Scott in hopes of getting a ride out past the other side of town where the more upscale neighbourhood houses anyone who can afford to live out of Beacon Hills proper and, of course, where Lydia lives. But Stiles leaves two voicemail messages and a variety of texts to no avail. It's dark outside, and a glance at his watch informs him that it's nearing eleven o'clock. Not really the best time to turn up on someone's doorstep asking for a favour, but Stiles has never been one to be confined to social norms.

It takes two buses and a bit of a walk but, forty minutes after setting out, Stiles finally makes it to Lydia's house. He rings the doorbell and waits.

"I need your help," Stiles blurts out when Lydia answers the door. It's not like there's any reason for small talk. Lydia hasn't wanted to talk to any of them since the night Jackson transformed from a kanima to a werewolf from the power of their stupid love or whatever. And then like a week later Jackson announced he was transferring to boarding school in freaking Massachusetts. Lydia's pretty much been blacklisting everyone since then. Which, okay, is kind of fair because she was being mind-controlled by Peter and everyone kept blowing her off for months. So. Not exactly stellar examples of friendship.

Lydia cocks her head to the side and gives him a calculating and disinterested look. Finally, with a quirked eyebrow, she says with all the cool confidence and obvious superiority Lydia is both admired and feared for, "Of course you do." Then she steps aside to allow Stiles inside. 

Lydia's bedroom is pretty much exactly the way Sties remembers from the one time he has actually been inside it and Stiles awkwardly hovers by the doorway as Lydia sits down on her bed in one graceful movement and leans back against the headboard. It's such a seamless action and her skirts are so perfectly arranged that Stiles wonders briefly if she has practised that move or if she's actually perfect at everything. He's pretty sure it's the latter.

"Well?" Lydia manages to take this one word and make Stiles feel like a peon wasting her very valuable time: as though every second he stands awkwardly in the doorway gaping stupidly is a second she could be using to cure cancer or something. 

"Uh," says Stiles, helpfully, then he digs the flash drive Allison gave him out of his pocket and says, "So you know that text you translated about the kanima?"

"About Jackson, you mean," Lydia replies curtly. And okay, yeah, maybe that's still a touchy subject.

"RIght," Stiles hasty agrees. "Well, I was hoping you could translate some more of the bestiary for me."

"How much of the bestiary?"

"Um. All of it?" Stiles winces a little, maybe grimaces a bit while he waits for Lydia to deliberate.

"Why?" Lydia finally asks.

"What?" Stiles responds.

Lydia rolls her eyes at him and huffs impatiently. "Why is this so important? Why do you need me to translate an entire book? Why do you need this at," Lydia glances at the clock on her bedside table, "almost midnight? _Why_ , Stiles?"

Stiles deflates a little bit, leaning into the door jamb for support. Keeping Lydia out of the loop while she had been sort of in the centre of everything has caused some residual conflict in that Lydia has been avoiding everyone since the night they drove into the middle of the werewolf-kanima showdown and Gerard the hybrid mess slithered off without a trace. And maybe isolating her hadn't been the best course of action there. So Stiles thinks of the most delicate and precise way to explain the situation to Lydia and says, succinctly, "Werecats."

"Werecats?" Lydia says, incredulous.

"And an alpha pack," Stiles adds helpfully.

"What the hell is an alpha pack?"

"A pack of alpha werewolves," Stiles explains with a shrug. "It doesn't make sense to me either."

Lydia gives a long-suffering sigh and says, "So what are we looking for?"

Stiles internally cheers. Well, mostly internally. He does fist-pump the air in celebration before scrambling over to give Lydia the flash drive.

Stiles spends twenty minutes hovering over Lydia's shoulder as she flicks through the pages of the bestiary and occasionally jots down notes because, as Lydia insisted, they might as well transcribe the more pertinent information first.

"You don't have to stay and watch, you know," Lydia says, scribbling notations onto a notebook in some sort of indecipherable shorthand. 

"I, uh, don't really have a way of getting home," says Stiles. "My car is gathering dust in an evidence garage and my best friend won't break his mom's rules just once to help me out." Which is completely unfair. Scott had finally texted him back a couple minutes earlier to inform Stiles that he couldn't swing by to take Stiles home because Mrs McCall has very specific rules about borrowing her car after 10pm. Specifically that he is not allowed to. But at least Scott had texted him back, Stiles supposes, since that is such a rarity lately.

Lydia looks up from her work to arch one perfect eyebrow at Stiles. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"If it's not too much trouble," Stiles says. "And even if it is," he qualifies. Because he really does need to get home. "Unless you're thinking slumber party, because I am in full support of that plan."

"I'll drive you home," Lydia replies decisively, setting her notes aside and grabbing her purse. 

Stiles makes it almost five minutes before the silence starts to drive him mad and, in a move that he almost instantly regrets, asks, "Have you spoken to Allison?" 

"Not since all my supposed friends blew me off during the most traumatic period of my life, no," is Lydia's reply, her voice carefully controlled and disturbingly light. The sharp glint in her eyes and the grim set of her mouth lending an unsettling addition to her words.

"We thought we were protecting you," says Stiles, and at the look Lydia shoots him he hastens to add, "In retrospect, not the brightest line of thinking."

Stiles isn't sure if it's better that Lydia can get angry about this now, instead of breaking down, but either way it doesn't bode well for him being in a confined space with her. 

"We were all dealing with a lot," Stiles steamrolls on because he might as well finish digging his grave now that he's started. "And so were you, obviously, and we didn't help. But Allison had a lot going on too. WIth all the hunter training and her family wanting to kill her ex-boyfriend who she was still secretly dating, and then her mom, you know, and being manipulated by her grandfather. It's been kind of busy around here lately. And we screwed up before but you don't have to go through it alone now."

"That's actually kind of sweet," Lydia offers an exasperated but almost fond smile. "But also none of your business. Now get out of my car."

Stiles jerks to look out the window and, hey! He's home! "Right," he says, fumbling for the door handle. "Thanks."

"I'll let you know when I have anything conclusive," Lydia promises, and she's not back to her normal state of Unaware Of Your Existence And Too Good For You Anyway but she's not falling apart like the last time he saw her. She's somewhere in-between and Stiles hopes it's somewhere good. 

 

Stiles wakes up at 3am to his text tone going off. When his eyes are sufficiently clear enough to focus he checks his inbox. There's one he somehow missed from Scott, promising to visit tomorrow (or today, technically) and, more importantly, one from Lydia. It simply reads: _Do you have access to any viscum album?_

His brain is still trying to process this question when his phone goes off again, Lydia following up with: _austriacum would be best_.

Then, immediately after that: _I think I can replicate a toxin that causes a werecat or other shapeshifter to devolve into feral behaviours_.

Lydia is brilliant. This is just one of the many reasons Stiles loves her, probably always will. But the sudden rush of excitement and potentially saving the day isn;t enough to stop his eyelids from drooping closed again, and in minuted he's all but dead to the world again, snoring indelicately into his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and my apologies for taking so long to post this chapter update.
> 
> In very, very related news, if you are interested in Teen Wolf cosplay and fan art you can check out this blog here: http://teammountainash.tumblr.com/  
> There is quite a lot of content about to be posted over the next month or so!
> 
> <3


	5. Chapter 5

"Stiles." The voice is familiar, but through the depth of Stiles' sleep-fuzzy mind he only distantly registers it at all.

"Stiles!"

Something touches Stiles' shoulder, forceful and unexpected, and it startles Stiles out of his sleep. In a rush of panic and adrenalin Stiles' arms flail out, swatting uselessly at the air as he rolls over and crashes to the floor on the other side of his bed taking most of his bedding with him.

He scrambles to get up, to free himself from the tangle of sheets and blankets, but his arms and legs are trapped, swaddled tightly, and he crashes back to the floor in an uncomfortable heap.

"Stiles," the voice says again, sounding a mixture of fond and exasperated. And finally Stiles is aware enough to realise who it is.

"Lydia!" Stiles is maybe a little panicked by this turn of events. Waking up to find your long-term crush in your bedroom is either a wondrous fantasy or a horrific nightmare. And like the rest of Stiles' life, this is falling into the latter category.

"What are you doing here? Not that I don't love having you here," Stiles continues, probably not helping the impending feelings of anxiety and dread that come with waking up to Lydia Martin looming over you. "But it's too early for house calls. I get enough of this odd-hours trespassing from the resident werewolves. And how did you even get in anyway?"

"It's two in the afternoon," Lydia replies. "And your dad let me in. He thinks it's nice we're spending time together."

Which essentially means his dad is going to be giving him extra pitying looks whenever Lydia is around because Stiles' dad knows of the epic unrequited love story that is Stiles' crush on Lydia. And even if they actually do become friends that's nothing to scoff at, okay? As much as Stiles would like to dream otherwise, two years ago Lydia would not even deign to recognise his existence and now they are working together to take down murderous supernatural creatures. Even if his fifteen year plan doesn't pan out, getting Lydia's acknowledgement is kind of a big deal. Stiles does not deserve the sad, vaguely patronising way his dad is going to look at this tentative almost-friendship. Which is more of an alliance, really.

"I've been trying to call you for hours," Lydia continues, effectively ending Stiles' internal monologue.

Stiles wriggles awkwardly on the floor and finally manages to pry an arm free of his cottony cocoon and reach for his phone on the bedside table. Sure enough the alert light is blinking insistently. He unlocks the phone to find the icons announcing eleven missed calls and thirty-two new text messages. All from Lydia. Well, okay, one from Scott confirming they were definitely still on for hanging out tonight and playing video games, but other than that, all Lydia.

"Uh, sorry," Stiles offers as a half-hearted apology.

"I think I've figured out the process for creating the toxin you were looking for," Lydia says, slipping seamlessly into imperious so-much-smarter-than-you-without-even-trying mode but tempered with some I'm-used-to-being-surrounded-by-lesser-beings-don't-feel-too-bad-about-your-failure-to-compare-to-my-genius-mind. "Most of the equipment and chemicals I need are stocked in the chem lab but there are a few plants and herbs we'll need to find."

"If I don't have them I know where we might be able to find them," Stiles offers helpfully. "I might have stolen some from Deaton the other day just in case."

"The veterinarian?" Lydia asks, confused, after a moment of thought. 

"Uh, yeah?" Stiles says sheepishly. Because whoops, they must've forgotten to mention that part when they all gave Lydia the supernatural run down. "He's sort of magic?'

Lydia is quiet for a moment, her head tilts to the side and eye peering up at some indefinable point on the ceiling as she assesses this information. "Magic," she says flatly, after a moment.

"Sort of magic," Stiles clarifies. Because Deaton had tried to explain it to him once, how magic doesn't actually exist but all of this talk about a 'spark' and the power of making crap happen just by the sheer power of thought and the correct mixture of plants pretty much just sounds like magic to Stiles, no matter what way you try to spin it.

"Okay," says Lydia, this quizzical look on her face that implies she is storing this information for later. "Good to know. Now, I have a list of all the things we need," Lydia fishes a folded piece of note paper out of her purse and hands it to Stiles from his position on the floor. If she rolls her eyes at him and purses her lips -- which Stiles is not saying she does -- then it is most likely out of a fondness for his endearing clumsiness and not at the seemingly endless supply of inadequacy and hopelessness he seems to have. 

"Since you weren't answering any of my messages I started working on some potential cures for the toxin, as well," she goes on, like being able to do that at all let alone in the span of a few hours is not a mind-blowingly amazing feat, and like talking to someone trapped on the floor in a pile of their own bedding is just another everyday occurrence. The undiluted perfection that is Lydia Martin, ladies and gentlemen.

"Are you serious?" Stiles doesn't doubt that she is serious. If Lydia told him she had built a fully functional nuclear warhead from items she found around her house he wouldn't doubt it, although he would worry considerably about what she would use it for. Lydia has the definite capacity to add 'evil' to the front of her uncontested title of genius.

"Well, I had the time," Lydia replies with a carefree shrug. "Now get dressed, we have work to do," Lydia says resolutely, turning sharply on one perfect heel and striding out of the room, leaving Stiles sputtering on the floor behind her.

It takes several minutes but Stiles manages to untangle himself. He throws his bed sheets in a messy pile onto his mattress and throws on some relatively clean-looking clothes from his closet floor, then races down the stairs to find Lydia waiting for him by the kitchen counter, chatting to his dad as he unloads the dishwasher. 

"Ready?" Lydia asks, one perfect eyebrow raised in question.

"Uh, yeah, I just gotta," Stiles motions towards the kitchen and _food_ but Lydia has already left, the screen door clanging shut behind her.

"Stiles," his dad says to get his attention and promptly throws him some fruit. "Don't stay out too late."

"Sure thing, dad," Stiles replies, even though, yeah, breaking curfew is pretty much a given these days. Stiles sighs in disappointment at the apple and banana in his hand. Fruit isn't breakfast. Isn't lunch. Whatever. It isn't a meal. It isn't even dessert. It's a snack food for the desperate at best and a punishment at worst. But there really isn't time for this, so he runs out of the house and down to Lydia's car idling in the driveway. 

 

Breaking into the school is a fairly easy and all-too-familiar experience. Usually these misadventures end in near death, but they're also usually at night so hopefully they aren't going to have to fight for their lives this time. Especially without some werewolf-empowered back up. 

But nothing eventful happens. After upending the contents of his backpack onto one of the workbenches, Stiles doesn't have anything to do other than pass the occasional substance to Lydia's impatiently waiting hand and try not to get in the way as Lydia spends hours meticulously measuring and timing and stirring. Lydia insists that she needs to first produce a reproduction of the toxin before working on the formulation of potential cures. Stiles mostly plays with his phone, thanks everything sacred for apps. 

Finally, Lydia looks up, protective goggles somehow managing to look classy and strangely sexy on her, and announces, "It's almost finished."

"And you think they'll work?" Stiles asks from where he's slumped across the adjacent work bench, arms sprawled across the table top.

"There's only one way to know for sure," Lydia tells him, turning back to scrutinise the contents of a test tube from the rack. "We need to run some trials."

"Uh, human trials?"

"I'm not sure what the effects would be on humans given the differing physiology and chemical processes," Lydia replies. Her tone is easy and dismissive but there's a hint of curiosity there that is more than a little worrying. "We need a werecat. Or a werewolf. Were-anything, really." 

"Yeah, I don't think anyone's going to be in a hurry to line up for this crazy mind-altering experiment," Stiles points out. 

"Then we'll just have to find our own," Lydia replies with a smile that is as beautiful as it is bone-rattlingly terrifying.

"Even our wolfy brethren can't get their claws into one, how the hell are _we_ supposed to?"

Lydia sighs and pins him with a condescending look. "Because we have something they don't have. The sense to ask a professional werewolf hunter to assist us with a task that is basically their job title."

"You don't mean Chris Argent," Stiles says with dawning horror.

"No, you idiot," Lydia huffs. "Allison."

"You do know she's not allowed to be involved in anything to do with hunting or werewolves anymore, right? Because of all the crazy? And pretty much any way to contact her is being monitored by someone in her dad's circle of hunters."

"So put that brain of yours to good use and be subtle about it."

Stiles and Allison don't exactly have the kind of deep and strong friendship that lends itself to private code. Aside from their recent and brief dalliance in teamwork they haven't spent much time together at all outside of a few occasions with Scott as their only common denominator and a few group lunches in the cafeteria. They aren't exactly friends and they don't really talk to each other very much at all. So it's not like Stiles has much to work with here.

It's with great resignation that Stiles opens his contacts list and hits call. 

Allison answers much more quickly than Stiles anticipated, picking up before the third ring with a pleasant if not slightly surprised, "Hi Stiles."

"Hey Allison, hey," Stiles replies and hastily switches the phone to his other ear, as though that will help in some way. 

"What's up?" Allison asks after a few seconds of awkward silence.

"Oh, you know," Stiles goes for casual but probably misses the mark by a mile. "I was just wondering if you were busy? You know, tonight? Or right now."

"Um, no?" Allison sounds a little bit confused but bounces back with a resolute, "No, I'm free right now."

"Okay, okay that's great! Do you want to hang out? With me," Stiles adds, lamely and unnecessarily. "We can bond over our mutual abandonment by Scott and check out some of the running trails near the preserve."

"Sure, Stiles," Allison sounds like she's smiling, at least, so that' something. "Do you need me to pick you up?"

"What?" 

"Your Jeep is still impounded, right?"

"Oh. Yeah. No. I mean yes it's impounded, no I don't need you to pick me up," the words just fly out of his mouth at incredible speed and Stiles has little to no control over the comprehension level. He tries quickly to think of a place they can meet nearby that doesn't scream 'suspicious!' or 'breaking all the rules and wandering stupidly into dangerous situations involving super powerful and crazed murder machines'. "Can you meet me at the cafe on Blossom? And bring the flash drive from last week I think I accidentally saved my _back up_ there instead of to my hard drive."

"No problem," Allison answers cheerfully. "Did you work out what was going on in chapter sixteen?"

Which, Stiles is pretty sure, was the file number detailing the unusual werecat activity in the stack of information Allison had given him from her father's files. 

"I think so," Stiles answers. "I had to ask Lydia for help though. Think maybe we should all team up for the prac assignment."

And yeah, he's maybe getting a bit heavy-handed here but hopefully Allison gets what he's trying to say and whoever is stuck going through her phone tap isn't tipped off.

"That could work," says Allison. "All right, I'll see you in fifteen?"

"Awesome!" Stiles replies and they both disconnect. He puts his phone away and looks up to see Lydia raising an eyebrow at him.

"Smooth, double-oh-seven," she says, but it's only half as cruel as it could be, her smirk is at least partially from genuine amusement and not cold superiority over his hopeless failure as a person. Stiles is very well-versed as the recipient of that look.

"So, Lydia," Stiles says in the tone that all parents can immediately decipher as the prelude to asking for a favour. "Can you give me a ride in to meet Allison?"

"I'm not quite finished yet," Lydia explains, drawing out some more equipment from under the bench. "And the compounds are not exactly stabilised right now."

"Uh huh, so maybe I can just --"

"You are not borrowing my car, Stiles," Lydia cuts in, authoritative and sexy and Stiles can't argue with her, but he's not one to give up on the impossible without at least one last ditch effort.

"How am I supposed to get there?" It's almost a whine, Stiles can admit that to himself. He's not beyond whining when non-vital exercise is on the line. 

"You've got legs haven't you?" is all Lydia offers as a response, not one to hand out sympathy lightly. And she knows it's a short walk from here, twenty minutes tops, less if he cuts across the sports oval and jumps the back fence.

Stiles sighs the sigh of the defeated and faces his fate, slides off his chair because he's going to have to leave right now to stand any chance of meeting Allison on time. But he does a double-take as he passes by Lydia for the door.

"Woah! Lydia, what are you doing?" There's panic in his voice because Lydia? Lydia is pressing a needle into her own arm. He watches in abject horror as she eases back the plunger and the syringe slowly fills with Lydia's blood and Stiles really, really does not like needles. Or blood. Or needles filled with blood.

"I've been experimenting with my own blood," Lydia replies easily as she sets the syringe down gently on the bench top and presses a cotton ball to her arm, like that is a normal thing to say, like this is not a completely messed up thing do.

"What?" Stiles asks. Because _what_ and, "Why?"

"What?" he adds again because really.

"Ever since I found out about werewolves and kanimas and my being immune," Lydia explains as she places a bandaid over her arm and then starts measuring a few drops of blood onto a slide, "I wanted answers and none of you seemed able to tell me anything about how my immunity works. I realised that if I wanted answers I would have to find them myself. Hence the experiments."

"Uh," Stiles doesn't entirely know what to do with this information. "Did you find out anything, then?"

"Nothing conclusive," Lydia admits. "But I only had samples of my own blood and Jackson's to work with. I really want to get a hold of some more werewolf blood for comparison and further testing. I'm not sure if having been the kanima previously has made any inherent changes to Jackson's genetic structure than a born or bitten werewolf. But I'm working with the theory that whatever component of my genetic makeup makes me immune to the bite can also help reverse the effects of the toxin. Unfortunately since there's no real documentation on this we'll just have to play it by ear."

"Sounds… good?" Stiles offers, not entirely certain he believes it or not. "I gotta go, okay? You just. You just keep doing that, then."

Lydia waves him off and Stiles leaves, although it feels an awful lot like fleeing.

 

Allison is waiting for him by the time he reaches the cafe, even though he ran the entire way. The run wasn't anywhere near as strenuous as even one of their lacrosse warm ups but Stiles has been avoiding anything resembling physical activity since the end of term, vacation sending him into sloth mode, so he's a little bit out of breath by the time he cuts across the parking lot and spots Allison sitting down at one of the outdoor tables waiting for him.

"Hi," Allison stands to greet him when he arrives, her smile warm and dimpled as she pulls him into a very unexpected hug. Stiles has a moment of internal panic because he hadn't realised their relationship had reached the hugging stage yet because, you know, they hardly know each other really. But Allison is, for lack of better word, _nice_ and he doesn't want to be a total asshole so he awkwardly returns the hug and pats her stiltedly on the back a couple times for good measure.

She's grinning up at him when she pulls back, hands still resting on him, warm even over the layers of his shirts. "Dad was bit weird when I left," she says, and a spark worry shoots through Stiles even though Allison doesn't look or sound concerned at all. 

"I don't think he knows about the hunting," Allison assures him and that does alleviate some of the stress Stiles has been feeling build up in the last few seconds. "But," she adds, grinning deviously and oh dear god she has spent too much time with Lydia because a look like that does not belong on Allison at all. "I'm pretty sure he thinks we're dating now," she concludes in a conspiratorial whisper. 

Stiles isn't sure what to say to that, but "I'm pretty sure that's against the bro-code," is what comes out.

Allison rolls her eyes at him, but pulls back a bit, arms falling to her side and her smile shifts back into something softer and more _Allison_. 

"He didn't say anything outright," Allison says, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "But it was implied. Very heavily implied."

"At least he didn't jump straight to the truth," Stiles feels the need to point out. He's feeling very ambivalent about the entire situation. On the one hand Allison's dad must think Stiles has some game to appear as more than an annoying blip off to the side of her radar, but on the other hand Allison seems annoyed or offended at the suggestion she could be dating him. That's just uncalled for.

"I don't know why he just jumped straight to us dating, like we couldn't be friends? I mean, we _are_ friends, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course we are," Stiles agrees, although this is news to him. But if Allison has been thinking of their relationship (which, in all honesty, Stiles has always thought of as forced acquaintances) as friends then Stiles isn't going to piss all over that. She's been more of a friend than Scott has lately. She looks a little relieved at his words so Stiles guesses it was the right move. 

"I didn't correct him. I didn't say we _are_ but I didn't say we _aren't_ and I don't plan to, as long as it's okay with you?" Allison shoots him a questioning look.

Stiles gives it a moment of thought, shrugs a shoulder and says, "I don't mind." And he doesn't. It's not like it makes any difference to him what Chris Argent thinks of him. They almost never see each other anyway. Stiles can't seem to get a date no matter how much he wants to, having someone _presume_ he's dating someone is almost like progress.

"I just can't believe him, you know? He polices every part of my life now, he doesn't get to decide who my friends are too. It would serve him right if we _were_ dating."

"You can buy me a dink if it'll make you feel better," Stiles suggests, motioning to the cafe. "Woo me. I'm all about the romance."

"Sure," Allison laughs, holding the cafe door open for him. "I can't have you thinking I'm bad date."

It turns out they have the same taste in caffeinated beverages and they leave the cafe with almost identical drinks topped with whipped cream and copious swirls of caramel. It's one of those fine establishments that let the patrons have access to the toppings and Stiles makes it his personal mission to add as much as possible to the top of his drink without causing the whipped cream to collapse under the weight of it. Stiles also has a large slice of brownie that Allison was generous enough to buy for him and it is much, much more satisfying than the fruit he had earlier.

"This is the best thing I have ever had in my mouth," Stiles declares, his mouth still half-full of brownie when he goes for the drinking straw, briefly struggling to capture it between his lips before taking a long pull. His mouth is a mixture of brownie and liquid cream and caramel and it should probably be a little bit disgusting but it is the most amazingly delicious experience. The look Allison gives him pretty much assures Stiles that she, at least, thinks it's a bit gross.

"We can't meet up with Lydia without getting her something too," Allison points out, looking guiltily from her drink back into the cafe, probably resigned to the loss of more money, the punishment of the overly nice.

"Pfft," Stiles scoff, plonking himself down at the nearest table. "What she doesn't know won't hurt us."

Allison's brow furrows and her expression looks almost pained. It's then that Stiles realises this is probably the first time Allison and Lydia will have spoken in the last few weeks and Allison is still wracked with guilt over everything that happened. Which, Stiles thinks, she should even more so than the rest of them for not only lying to Lydia and ignoring her Peter Hale-induced trauma but also for joining her grandpa in he family business: hunting with a heaping side of torture and murder just for kicks. Because nothing avenges the death of a loved one like attempting to kill your relatively innocent classmates and one extra hopeless newly alpha'd werewolf.

Her internal debate lasts little more than a few moments before Allison seemingly comes to a decision and slides into the seat opposite Stiles, albeit still looking more than a little conflicted. 

There's an uncomfortable silence and then an equally uncomfortable, "Have you spoken to Scott?" from Allison.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles nods. "Just by text. You guys still on radio silence?"

Allison smiles sadly. "He called me yesterday. But he's..."

Stiles is spared whatever emotional admission Allison is about to unload on him when she trails off, eyes fixed on some point over Stiles' shoulder, her face drawn and pinched. Stiles twists in his seat to follow her gaze and, "Huh," says Stiles, because further down the sidewalk is Derek Hale. His presence alone is more than enough to get a reaction from Allison since it's not quite so easy to forgive someone for biting your mother who then committed suicide to avoid becoming the very thing her family vowed to destroy. And Stiles is pretty sure that Scott hasn't quite gotten around to telling her about the 'Your mom tried to asphyxiate me with wolfsbane and make it look like I died of an asthma attack' portion of that event for context. Although, honestly? Probably wouldn't make her feel warm and fuzzy about Derek's participation in her mom's death.

Stiles, however, is more dumbfounded by the fact that Derek is exiting the grocers. Carrying two paper bags. With leafy green peeking from the tops. Like Derek Hale has been grocery shopping. For produce. Like a normal person. This mundane activity would not be in anyway notable if it were anyone else, but Stiles can count on one hand the number of normal everyday human things he has witnessed Derek do. In fact, on one finger. Because the only remotely normal thing Stiles has ever seen Derek do is flirt with that deputy when they were sneaking in to the Sheriff's Department to spring Isaac on his first full moon. 

Derek Hale is the guy who lurks around the school occasionally while oozing from being shot to hell with wolfsbane bullets, appears at random in teenagers' bedrooms to threaten them with physical violence and intimidation, creepily seduces the emotionally vulnerable into joining his freaky werewolf pack, tears his own uncle's throat out without hesitation, buries the remaining half of his own sister in a self-dug grave, and communicates largely through verbal threats and inflicting small amounts of physical pain. He is not the guy who hauls a bag of clothes to the coin laundry or washes his car in the driveway or visits the barber for a haircut or buys freaking groceries. And, hey, how does he even store them? It's not like there's a lot of power in any of the places he habitually frequents. The remains of the Hale house, the train car and the new decrepit warehouse aren't exactly hooked up for electricity and running water. Truth be told, Stiles has always just assumed Derek ran around in the woods feasting on raw deer and bathing in streams.

But here he is, carrying bags of groceries like a well-adjusted member of society. It's disturbing.

"Allison, are you okay?" Stiles asks, looking away from Derek for a moment to check how Allison is doing, a little concerned about what could happen if she loses it again. Murder in the cafe district is not the way Stiles wants his afternoon going. 

"I'm fine," she says, sounding anything but. Stiles reaches across the table and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze and she gives him a terse smile in return. 

When Stiles turns back around, Derek is halfway to his Camaro, keys out and standing still, staring right back at Stiles and Allison. There is an awkward few minutes of complete deadlock, all three of them frozen in an impromptu stare-down until several long moments later Derek turns and heads for his car.

Stiles and Allison watch him place the groceries in the back and drive away. They sit a while longer in silence until Allison clears her throat and suggests they should really go meet up with Lydia.

Stiles nods in agreement and slurps obnoxiously at the remnants of his drink as they make their way to Allison's car. After carefully checking they aren't being watched Allison pops the trunk to reveal an arsenal to rival the Winchesters. Stiles eyes might bug out at the sight.

"Oh my God," he says, staring down at the array of weaponry in shocked awe.

"I didn't know what the plan was," Allison explains, "so I just brought everything I could that wouldn't be missed."

"Yeah," Stiles nods, swallows thickly around his own tongue. "This should do it." 

As if on cue, Lydia texts Stiles telling him to bring Allison and meet her by Trail 12 of the Beacon Hills Preserve. 

 

Two hours into the trail and still nothing. They're almost to the area backing onto the community centre. There's a sports oval, jungle gym and popular family hiking paths for the next several miles after this point, and well past the nearest remains attributed to the werecats. 

"Maybe we should take the next trail south-west," Allison suggests, drawing to a halt by the diverging dirt paths.

There isn't time for any further speculation because Lydia, who has wandered off the trail into the underbrush, lets out an ear-piercing shriek that sends Allison and Stiles into immediate motion, running off the path to her side. 

"Lydia, what is it--" Allison says, reaching Lydia's side before Stiles. "Oh my god."

"I thought I saw something," Lydia explains, voice wavering, clutching at Allison's supporting arm around her. "I wanted to get a closer look, and," she trails off, swallowing audibly.

"Hey," Stiles says, trying to peer past them at whatever traumatising sight Lydia has discovered. "What is it?"

"No, Stiles! You really don't want--"Allison warns, trying to push him back, away from the object of intrigue. But to no avail. Stiles elbows his way between the girls and the foliage and stops dead.

"Oh my god," Stiles reiterates Allison's earlier exclamation because that sums up the sight perfectly and definitely bears repeating. In the small clearing Stiles now has an unobstructed view of the very, very messy remains of what looks like an adult male and a small child. Their faces and extremities appear to have been gnawed on or clawed, but their entire midsections look like they've been put through a meat grinder. Strands of torn flesh cling to the exposed bones and lie listlessly draped into the cavernous hulls of the chest and abdomen of each victim where their entrails are all too clearly missing, a mushy mixture of stagnant blood and stray chunks of meat and small pieces of organs all that's left. Like a really disgusting soup. There is no telltale reek of decay so it must be fairly recent, but it's not completely fresh. The blood is dry, or drying, not wet so much as tacky and congealed. Insects have had plenty of time to get wind of the human smorgasbord, flies buzzing around in droves not typical for the mild weather.

Stiles can feel his stomach turning, feels the bile rising at the back of his throat and all he can think is _not again_. But if he has to succumb to the queasiness in his stomach or the light-headedness, Stiles would go with vomiting over passing out any day. It's not his fault he has an aversion to blood. And gore. And sights that are probably going to ruin him for minced meats and sauces for a long time. Pre-werewolf he had always thought seeing a dead body would be kind of cool, not much different from on TV or a video game. But no. 

"Is it the Alphas or the cats?" asks Lydia, still holding on to Allison's arm like a lifeline. She still looks and sounds on he verge of panic, but there's a resoluteness to her, to push on and assess the situation. 

"The Alphas haven't killed anyone yet," supplies Allison. "Not that we know of, anyway. I don't think they'd do this is. It's too… uncontrolled."

"And we know that the one thing werecats are lacking is control," Lydia agrees. "Do you think it's still nearby?"

 

Allison eyes the surrounding woods and takes a few cautious steps away from Lydia, raising her crossbow as she circles around the clearing.

"Mountain lions are known to return to their kills," Lydia adds nervously, out of her element, lacking the confidence she has in an academic setting and shaken by the sight of the mauled bodies. It _is_ like a harsh slap in the face with the reality of the situation. A slap in the face with two dead bodies. 

"I don't think they play by the same rules as actual mountain lions," Allison points out, dropping into a crouch as she looks intently at something on the ground.

"Did you find something?" Lydia asks, curious but still obviously panicked.

"Yeah," Allison says curiously, poking at the substance with a knife from her belt. "It's black bile."

"Like from a werewolf with wolfsbane poisoning?" Stiles asks. Because this adds an unexpected twist to the proceedings.

"Just like that, yeah," Allison answers, standing back up quickly, eyes darting to the far edge of the clearing looking alert and on edge.

That's when Stiles hears a rustle from that same direction. It could be nothing, a squirrel or the breeze but this is Beacon Hills and they are never that lucky.

Allison looses a bolt from the crossbow when the figure bursts from the foliage. It strikes it's target, lodging deeply in its shoulder. The creature is halfway across the clearing, moving awkwardly along on all fours, before Stiles realises it isn't one of the werecats; mottled patches of fur sprouting amidst dark scales. It stops to hack up some more globules of black onto the grass and gives them a few moments to fully take in its mangled appearance. 

"Grandpa?" Allison chokes out. The previously steady hand on her crossbow wavers, and she looks haunted, the colour drains from her face instantaneously and Stiles thinks for a moment that she is about to cry. Allison looks _fragile_ which is jarring and almost more alarming than the freaky nightmare Gerard has turned into. Except no, not at all. 

Gerard glances up, glowing eyes fixed on Allison, bile dripping down his half-scaly chin and gurgles around the bile still seeping from his open mouth, "Allison."

That's all it takes to snap whatever haze Allison has been in: Her face steels and she raises the crossbow in one swift, sure movement, notching another bolt that is sent propelling into Gerards' neck. It hits with a sick, wet sound and Gerard heaves more bile onto the forest floor with equally wet hacks. 

"Oh God," Stiles utters, wincing in disgust, barely able to hold back the reflexive urge to gag at the sight of the deformed, barely human face of the kanima-werewolf mess that Gerard has become trailing thick, black ooze down his chin where it meets the steadily growing puddle of goopy bile on the ground with each hideous, stomach-turning cough that send full-body shakes running through Gerard.

"Go!" Allison shouts, motioning an arm at Stiles and Lydia just before Gerard leaps at Allison and pins her to the ground with a hard _thump_ against the packed dirt.

It doesn't take any more than that to set Stiles and Lydia running, retreating through the forest trail clumsily in their haste. Stiles might have felt worse about leaving Allison behind if he hadn't seen her slide a dagger out of some inner pocket and thrust upwards into Gerard's underbelly, rending skin and muscle, as Stiles and Lydia were fleeing the clearing. Allison, Stiles knows, is much more equipped to handle this than he is, Allison is much more capable in every way that counts. And more than anything else Stiles knows he can't let Lydia be hurt again. He can't leave her like he did that night with Peter.

So they run, stumbling through the underbrush, branches and twigs scraping against their legs, and back to the hiking trail. Their hands are gripped firmly together, knuckles white with the tension of it, and in a unanimous unspoken decision they turn in the direction of the community centre and the relative safety that comes with the foot traffic on the outskirts of the small town, much closer than the parking lot they started at. 

Between Lydia's heels catching in the uneven path and the pebbles and twigs covering the trail and Stiles' natural inclination for tripping over his own feet they alternate pulling each other along. The fierce grip of their hands simultaneously reassuring and an anxiety-laden reminder of what's at stake.

They make it to the oval that backs onto the community centre and Stiles can feel the last minute boost of adrenalin that floods his system and even over the burning of his lungs he pushes himself harder. Stiles picks up speed, Lydia keeping pace just shy of him (which is doubly impressive given the height of the heels she's wearing) and they sprint across the sports oval.

Stiles feels a premature sense of triumph as they reach the half-way point, only to feel it fizzle out and be replaced immediately with an all-too-familiar sense of dread and terror as he glances back just in time to see Allison burst through the tree line at a dead run. Her bow is missing, and Stiles can see the glint of a knife blade held in her hand as it reflects in the dimming evening sun. She makes it a few paces before being tackled to the ground by Gerard, who comes pelting out of the woods in her wake.

Stiles and Lydia falter to a stop in order to watch in mounting terror as Gerard pulls back one clawed hand in readiness to swipe at Allison as she struggles to free her trapped hand that holds her only visible weapon. Except, inexplicably, he freezes for the briefest of moments and promptly collapses in prone heap, effectively trapping Allison under his dead weight.

"What," Stiles starts, heaving an exhausted and confused breath.

"The hell?" Lydia very considerately finishes for him, hand still firmly intertwined with his own, but staring across the oval at the scene with a perplexed expression on her face.

They watch, still frozen to the spot unsure if they should keep running away or run back to help, as Allison drags herself away from Gerard. She gets to her feet, takes two staggering steps, looks down at something on her upper arm and falls ungracefully to the ground.

The decision to move is effectively made by Lydia, who drops Stiles' hand and runs back across the oval to Allison. Lydia falls to her knees on the grass beside Allison before Stiles even thinks enough to chase after her. Before he gets more than two steps, however, he almost trips right over his own feet in shock when, out of the tree line Allison and Gerard had just emerged from, out steps Deaton, clad in leather and looking like a total badass rocking a tranq gun.

"Stiles," Deaton says, nodding his head in acknowledgement. And it's unnerving because Deaton doesn't raise his voice but Stiles can hear it almost as clearly as he would if Deaton were right next to him and not halfway across a sports field.

It's enough to startle Lydia, who pulls Allison protectively into her lap at the sight of Deaton striding across the field towards them, gun slung across his shoulder in a way that looks both weirdly casual and entirely badass. Lydia scrambles backwards on the grass pulling Allison with her in response. Stiles regains his bearings and sprints back over to them.

"Deaton," Stiles says, stopping protectively between Lydia and Gerard's unconscious form. "What's going on? Where've you been? Scott's been worried. I may have borrowed and used some of your supplies." Stiles figures if he slips that info in now he can't get into as much trouble for it later. It's a sound theory.

Deaton's lips quirk in something that vaguely resembles amusement and crouches down to check Gerard's pulse. "I left to track Gerard down," he says, voice annoyingly mild as ever. "It took a little longer than expected."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says, not really caring, and turns to Lydia and Allison instead. "You okay?" he asks Allison, though really, it definitely also extends to Lydia who is looking far more distressed than she should ever have to feel.

"She got hit with the venom," Lydia explains, pointing out the cut on Allison's upper arm.

"I can still move," Allison insists, arm spasming out, flailing and flopping like a fish dropped on dry land. "Sort of," she amends.

"It's because Gerard is part werewolf still, a hybrid creature," Deaton explains. "He shouldn't be able to exist at all but, as it is, it would seem the kanima venom he inherited has a somewhat less potent effect. What were you three doing out here anyway?"

"It's a long story," Stiles states, scrubbing a tired hand across his exhausted face. "What happens now?" 

"I take Gerard back to the clinic," Deaton says. "And I expect you three to stop by before opening tomorrow when there will be time to hear the full story."

"Fine," Stiles sighs in resignation, not particularly keen on the early start tomorrow or having story time with Deaton.

"What about the bodies?" Lydia asks.

"What about the bodies?" Stiles questions in reply.

"We left our footprints and God knows what else all over the crime scene," Lydia points out. "We have to call the Sheriff's Department."

"Oh no we don't," Stiles hastily replies. "Do you know how much my dad would kill me if he found out I'm involved in another random crime? I'll be on house arrest until college. Maybe longer."

"He'll find out anyway when they comb the scene. We don't even know what kind of trace evidence we might have left behind," Lydia points out, stubborn and resolute. "Not to mention it will look a thousand times less suspicious if you just call it in instead of trying to cover it up."

Stiles sighs and pulls out his phone, ready to dial his dad. 

"Wait," says Allison, sounding panicked. "My dad can't know I was here!"

"You're eighteen now," Lydia points out. "There's no reason the Sheriff's Department would need to notify him about it."

"He'd hear about it," Allison replies darkly.

"You were never there," Stiles agrees. "Check. Okay, we ready now?"

"My crossbow," says Allison. "I had to leave it behind."

"So we go back to the clearing, find the crossbow, send you home then call in the CSI team," says Lydia, rising elegantly to her feet, and somehow managing to still look graceful as she pulls Allison up with her.

"There's no need for that," Deaton chimes in, deftly removing one of the straps around his torso to free the crossbow from his back. "I picked it up on my way through. I believe these are yours as well," he adds, pulling a couple of the crossbow bolts from his jacket pocket.

"I can't get back to my car like this," Allison points out, leaning heavily against the much shorter Lydia for support, Allison's legs quivering from the effort of staying upright.

"My car is parked by the community centre," Deaton says, motioning to the small building on the other side of the field. "I can drive you back to where you parked. The effects of the venom should have worn off by the time we get there."

"Yeah," Allison agrees, offering Deaton a weak smile. "That sounds great. Thank you."

They make their way across the oval to Deaton's car, with Deaton carrying Gerard slung over his shoulder in an effortless fireman's carry while Lydia and Stiles stumble along supporting one side of Allison each. It takes a good few minutes to get there and to get everyone safely secured in the vehicle, but after that it's just Stiles and Lydia alone together in the empty parking lot.

Stiles heaves a sigh and dials his dad.

 

"So," his dad says, arms folded across his chest as he eyes Stiles and Lydia. "You just decided to go for a two hour hike."

"Yes," Stiles and Lydia both agree in perfect unison, nodding for emphasis.

The Sheriff's eyebrow quirks in suspicion. "In high heels?" he queries, eyeing Lydia's footwear with doubt and disbelief clear in his tone and written in bold block letters across his face.

"Location is no excuse not to look your best," Lydia replies evenly.

Stiles' dad fixes him with a look that clearly asks _'Seriously?'_

Stiles shrugs and offers, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," his had echoes, rubbing a hand across his forehead the way he does when he has a particularly impressive headache forming. It takes a moment for the sheriff to blink away the slight wince from his expression and continue. "So you just stumbled into them on your hike?"

"I saw something through the trees," says Lydia. "I went to get a closer look and found... them."

"Lydia screamed," Stiles continues on. "I followed after her and we panicked. We thought maybe whoever did it might still be around."

"So you ran," his dad says. "Out to the oval where we found you?"

"Yeah, and we called you straight away," Stiles assures him. "We just freaked out."

"You know you've been showing up at a lot of crime scenes lately, Stiles," his dad says, in a way that is mostly concern, but with an undercurrent of interrogatory intent. 

"I know," Stiles answers, quiet and more than a little sad.

"I'm worried about you kiddo."

"I know," Stiles repeats, quieter this time. It feels like a hand has reached inside his chest and just squeezed the oxygen out of him, and his chest aches with the phantom pain of it.

When it's all over and Stiles finally gets to go home he checks his phone to find one text message from Scott, received several hours earlier. 

_Sorry_ , it reads. _cant mak it :( c u 2morrow tho?_

Stiles doesn't bother sending a reply, just rolls over on his bed and drifts into a restless sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thanks so much for bearing with me and waiting for this chapter. I had a lot on with assignments and exams, making t-shirts for my etsy store (https://www.etsy.com/au/shop/AconitumNapellus), and planning my Teen Wolf Valentine's Day (http://julietrichards.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I know excuses don't make up for it, so thank you so much, you amazing people for continuing to read this fic.

The meeting with Deaton is a lot less intriguing than Stiles has been expecting. Deaton gives them a brief run down of what he's been up to since his mysterious disappearance, and when Stiles says 'brief' he really means incredibly brief: all they get is a perfunctory "I've been tracking Gerard" before Deaton starts in on them about what's been happening in Beacon Hills in his absence. Ultimately it feels like a huge waste of time, especially considering it's eight in the freaking morning and any self respecting teen on school vacation shouldn't be awake for at least another four hours, let alone outside.

But then Allison goes and asks, "What about my grandpa? What are you going to do with him?" and Stiles' curiosity is piqued once more.

"Here's an idea: how about we kill him?" Stiles suggests, very reasonably.

Beside him, Allison's posture stiffens and Lydia purses her lips and levels a look of disdain at him from across the examination table. Deaton, to his credit, looks just as irritatingly placid as ever.

"What?" Stiles asks, defensive. "Killing is a permanent solution to our problems but every time I suggest it I get shot down and things get a hundred times worse."

"Stiles," Allison says like it physically hurts her. And, okay, yeah, accepting that you have to kill a close family member for the betterment of society is probably tough to deal with, no matter how homicidally crazed they are. But Allison surprises him, going on to conclude in just as pained a manner, "I don't think that's such a bad idea."

"He's much more useful to us alive," Lydia interjects. "For now," she qualifies, shrugging one shoulder.

"She's right," Deaton agrees. "Even though the hybrid version is less potent, kanima venom will be very useful."

"We obviously don't stand a chance against an entire pack of alpha werewolves," says Lydia. "A pack of paralysed werewolf alphas, however?"

"Is it worth the risk of having him around?" Stiles asks. "He's kind of a wild card. And completely insane and powerful, in case you've forgotten."

"Yeah, but Lydia's right," says Allison. "The kanima venom is the only advantage we have at our disposal so far."

"When this backfires remember who was pro-kill, here," Stiles says although it goes completely ignored as Deaton and Lydia delve into a discussion about the toxin she has been replicating, and the possibility of infusing the kanima venom with some other agents to increase its toxicity.

"I might need some more information," Lydia concludes. "It's not like it's all readily available in a Google search."

"Pfft," Stiles scoffs. "That's how I've gotten most of my information since Scott was bitten."

"Really, Stiles?" Lydia says, icy and sarcastic. "And how reliable has that information been?"

"It's touch and go," Stiles admits. "You just have to weed out the misinformation. You know, _research_."

"Or we could save time and resources and find a more reliable source of information," says Lydia.

"My dad has some books at home that might be useful," Allison chimes in.

"Perfect!" says Lydia, clapping her hands together. "Let's go."

 

"You have to hurry it up," Allison says for about the seventeenth time in five minutes from her lookout post by the window, peering out the frilly lace curtains of the guest bedroom. "My dad can't know we've been in here."

"I'm sorry," Lydia snaps, having lost her patience several minutes ago. "Skimming through two dozen books and random sheafs of paper in archaic Latin might go a little more quickly if I had some assistance, but I don't see anyone rushing in to help."

"What - " Stiles starts. "When am I supposed to find time to learn a dead language? In case you haven't noticed my schedule is already full with running for my life and figuring out how to save everyone else."

"Apparently that now involves Latin," Lydia says, slamming a book closed for emphasis. A flurry of dust is sent out from the old tome in reaction and the adorable little sneeze it evokes from Lydia doesn't manage to detract from the glare she is sending Stiles.

"Guys!" Allison snaps, moving away from the window and carefully shifting the curtain back into place. "We have to wrap this up fast; my dad's home."

They grab the stack of books and papers Lydia has deemed useful and hurriedly return the rest to their locked box and slide it to the back of the closet where they found it. 

"Lydia, is everything, uh, never mind," Stiles cuts himself off, realising too late he doesn't actually want to incur further wrath from Lydia over whatever she's suddenly and inexplicably pissed at him about. 

Lydia looks at him for a moment like he's some sort of problem she's about to crush mercilessly under her heel. Then she sighs and the anger seems to dissipate. 

"It's Jackson," Lydia tells him as Allison ushers them into her bedroom. She breaks eye contact and unexpectedly adds a soft, "Sorry," as she strides purposefully through the open door to Allison's room.

"Under the pillows," Lydia instructs, passing the absconded literature into Stiles' arms. She's already arranging herself at the end of Allison's bed, posing artfully across the bedspread like a character in an old film. By the time Stiles has finished hastily stuffing the books under the pillows of Allison's bed, Lydia has a pen in one hand and casually flipping through one of Allison's school books she has clearly taken from the desk. 

There's an awkward moment of indecision for Stiles as he realises his limited options for seating: Allison has moved from her lookout position by the door and is taking up residence at the desk while Lydia has laid claim to the bed. Stiles tries leaning casually against the wall but realises how incredibly awkward it looks (even more awkward than it feels with some sort of protruding decoration stabbing him in the spine). The footsteps on the stairs are becoming increasingly audible and Stiles looks at Allison for help. She appears to be trying to communicate with Stiles via intense eye-widening that might as well be archaic Latin for all Stiles can decipher the meaning of it.

"Seriously, Stiles?" Lydia asks, and Stiles can practically hear the eye roll even if he can't see it. Lydia twists onto her other side and reaches one delicate hand over to yank Stiles by the hem of his shirt with such surprising force that Stiles topples onto the bed next to Lydia. 

"Ow! Stiles, you're on my hair!" Lydia stage whispers, smacking Stiles' thigh until he clambers away from her. 

"You're the one who --" Stiles starts to retort when Allison cuts him off with a fierce, "Both of you cut it out right now!"

Stiles snaps his mouth closed and scrambles to seat himself in something resembling a natural, casual position. Lydia meanwhile has her full attention focused on hurriedly fixing her hair in a compact mirror she has pulled from seemingly nowhere. The compact snaps closed barely a second before a knock sounds at the door.

"Allison?" Argent's voice says from the other side of the closed door.

"Come in," Allison says. "I'm just working on some vacation homework."

"Hi Mr Argent," Lydia says, and Stiles doesn't miss the flirtatious little flip of her hair. And really? Mr Argent? Stiles might actually puke.

"I didn't know you were having friends over," is all Chris says, turning his attention straight to Allison. It almost sounds casual, but Chris Argent has this steely underlying vibe going on that always creeps Stiles out a bit. And really, how can Lydia see anything in this guy? Not even counting the Best Friend's Dad factor. That would be like Stiles getting all hot for Scott's mom, except if she were less awesome and more weirdly disturbing and freaky. And Stiles needs to _never think of Mrs McCall like that ever, ever again._

"We just wanted to get a start on some of the vacation homework," Allison lies, smooth as anything. "And we figured it would be better if we compared notes."

Chris stares at Allison for a moment, silent, like he's reading her or waiting for her to break. But she just meets his stare and Chris must not see any hint of deception because he visibly shifts, looking more comfortable and immediately less intimidating than before.

"Didn't you two go to the prom together?" Chris asks, actually sounding a little hopeful and wow total creeper, looking between Stiles and Lydia together on the bed.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles replies, awkward and uncomfortable.

"I want you to keep the door open," Chris says to Allison. "You know the rules for having a boy in your room."

"It's not like Stiles and Lydia are going to start making out, dad. We just want some privacy to go over our school work."

"Me and Stiles? Please. Like that would ever happen," Lydia scoffs. "I prefer my men a little more... mature."

"Oh my God," Allison mutters quietly to herself with a slight wince.

"Allison, can I speak with you in the hall," Chris says. Sure, it's phrased like a question but it's obviously a command.

"Yeah, of course," Allison replies, already rising from her seat to follow her father. "I'll be back in a minute," she tells Stiles and Lydia before closing the door behind her.

"What?" Lydia asks Stiles, who may or may not be staring at her just a little bit.

"Sometimes some things seem like they would never work, but it turns out that when you put them together they're unexpectedly awesome," Stiles explains. "Like peanut butter and jelly wrapped in bacon."

"If you're talking about the threesome vibe from Scott, Isaac and Allison I completely agree with you. But nothing's going to happen until they all stop avoiding each other and accept their weird mutual attraction," Lydia replies. "Terrible example, though. Even the idea of a peanut butter and jelly bacon wrap is nauseating."

"You don't even know what you're talking about, it's an amazing taste sensation!" Stiles argues and then his brain catches him up on everything Lydia just said and, "Wait. Threesomes? What?"

"Why do guys think you can wrap any food in bacon?" Lydia muses, seemingly more to herself than an actual query. "And don't act like you haven't noticed it. The three of them are so obviously hopelessly into each other it's almost sickening."

"You're insane," Stiles says. Because that is insane. And he totally won't be able to stop thinking about this now. 

"I'm a genius," Lydia replies easily. "Now hush. I want to hear what they're saying."

Lydia stares intently at the closed bedroom door as though doing so will somehow heighten her eavesdropping abilities. Which maybe it will. Much of Lydia is a mystery.

"I'm not hunting, dad," Allison's voice is barely even muffled through the door, though it sounds as if they've walked down to the far end of the hall. "They're my friends. I should be allowed to spend time with my friends. Be a normal teenager."

"We don't even know what Lydia is," Chris says. Which, you know, _ouch_.

"She's my _friend_ ," says Allison. "I was too caught up in hunting before to be there for her when she needed someone. I'm not going to let that happen again."

Lydia leans in close to Stiles and, without looking away from the door, says quietly so as not to interfere with her snooping, "Do you think they realise we can hear every word of this?" 

Stiles is about to reply when he is drawn back into eavesdropping by Chris Argent's voice. Stiles missed whatever was said while Lydia was whispering to him, but catches Chris asking, in a very resigned manner, "You're not dating him are you?"

For a moment Stiles is certain that Mr Argent is onto the whole, unsubtle relationship Allison and Scott have been trying to keep secret, but then Allison is saying, "So what if I am? I can date whoever I like, you don't get to decide that for me. Besides, it's not like he's a werewolf right? He's a normal guy, isn't that what you wanted?"

And Stiles realises that they're talking about him, not Scott. Which still doesn't makes sense to him. Chris Argent is about as good at deducting interpersonal relationships as he is at hunting werewolves. Which is to say not very good. Seriously, how has someone whose career is to hunt werewolves failed so spectacularly at actually hunting them? Although that's been pretty good for everyone so far. Especially Scott.

"I wouldn't go so far as to call him normal," Chris says, sardonic. And that is entirely uncalled for.

"Is there something you forgot to tell me, Stiles?" Lydia asks, amusement clear on her face and in her voice.

"Hey," Stiles protests. "It could happen! Just because there isn't a line and ticket system to get with me doesn't mean I'm not attractive to... people."

"Obviously," Lydia says. "But not to Allison." And Stiles doesn't know what she means by that: obviously he's attractive or obviously he could be attractive to someone somewhere just not anyone in Beacon Hills? Does Lydia think he's attractive? Is his fifteen year plan yielding early results?

"Because of Scott and Isaac," Lydia is saying to him slowly like he's an idiot, and okay, maybe he did zone out for a moment there.

"Right," Stiles agrees, even though he doesn't. He does not agree at all because Lydia is making no sense. Stiles has not seen anything to support a secret lust between Allison, Scott and Isaac. A not-at-all-secret lust between Allison and Scott, yes. A potential for something decidedly un-platonic between Scott and Isaac, checkaroo. Stiles is fairly certain Allison and Isaac don't even like each other at all.

Eventually Allison returns to her room and makes a point of closing the door. It's a surprising act of petty passive aggression that Stiles wouldn't have expected of Allison.

Stiles and Lydia leave shortly after. They can't get much work done with Allison's dad within earshot. And because it is just super awkward. Allison gives them a quick run down of the process for smelting wolfsbane bullets and arming arrow tips, and Lydia promises to email Stiles information about the chemical make-up of the kanima venom so that he can figure out how to combine it with other properties and better weaponise it. It shouldn't be much different to making the werecat repellent and, honestly, Stiles is kind of excited to get to work on it.

 

He doesn't get straight to work on the research, but when he does start going through the information Lydia sends, as well as his own notes, Stiles gets completely immersed. It's almost completely dark outside (which explains the increasing eyestrain, really) when a voice from his doorway says, "You're dating Allison?" 

Stiles looks up from his carefully compiled research, which in this instance is a mass of papers spread out across half his bedroom, to see Scott standing in the doorway looking at Stiles like a sad, lost puppy.

"Wow, you heard about that already?" Stiles asks, surprised the gossip would travel this quickly even in a small town like Beacon Hills.

"Dude," Scott sounds like someone punched him in the gut. "I'm happy for you," he says dejectedly, nowhere near anything in the realm of happy.

"No you're not," Stiles replies, flippant, but catches the hurt look Scott makes at that and realises that, yeah, okay, Scott is exactly the guy who'd be happy for Stiles in this situation, just not happy for himself. "Chill out and think for a second: have Allison and I ever seemed like we'd be into each other?"

"Um," Scott furrows his brow in thought or possibly confusion.

"No, dude. Because we're not."

"Not what?"

"Not into each other."

"You and Allison?"

"Not dating," Stiles assures.

"But why-"

"Total misunderstanding. It's like a bad plot line in a trashy teen drama."

"Oh," Scott deflates a little, looking relieved. "I really would have been happy for you. You know, if you were."

"I know, buddy," Stiles clears a space next him at the end of the bed. "Now get on over here already."

Scott beams and rushes in to embrace Stiles in a bro-hug of forgiveness. 

"Oh dude," says Scott after a few moments, pulling back and wrinkling his nose in disgust. Stiles knew the Febreze wouldn't be enough to cover the smell to a werewolf, but it was worth a shot. "You knew I was coming over."

"Sometimes you've gotta let nature run it's course, Scotty," Stiles says with a half shrug. "Besides, it's not like anyone else is lining up to get with this," Stiles makes a sweeping gesture to encompass the entirety of his person. "You can't blame a guy for indulging in some self-love when the only person who is loving me is myself." 

"Dude," says Scott. "You knew I was coming over."

"I knew you were coming over yesterday, too," Stiles points out, "and you didn't show."

"Derek wanted me and Isaac to run perimeter again," Scott complains. "It's not like I wanted to do it."

"Aren't you supposed to be doing that tonight too?" Stiles asks. He already knows Scott is supposed to be doing that. Scott and Isaac are supposed to be doing that every night. Which, okay, fair enough there is a lot of murder up in this place right now, but it's not like they need to stick to a constant schedule like this.

"Yeah," Scott admits, sheepish. "I got Erica to cover for me."

"Uh, isn't she supposed to be on bed rest still?" asks Stiles. "You know, what with that whole having her insides ripped out and then stitched back in after being abducted, held captive and likely tortured for weeks thing?" 

"Yeah, but she's fine now," Scott shrugs. "Super healing."

"Aw, you're playing hooky just for me," Stiles coos, hand over his heart. "That's so sweet. I love you too, buddy."

"Shut up," Scott pushes his shoulder in mock protest, grinning like a dork. "Seriously, though," he says after a moment, nose wrinkling. "Can we get out of here? You can stay over at my place, mom's making Mexican before she leaves for her late shift."

"I hope your mom makes enough for seconds," Stiles says as he grabs a change of clothes and follows Scott out, abandoning his project. Mexican night at the McCall house is the best. "No, scratch that, I hope she makes enough for thirds.

"Derek isn't going to tear you apart for abandoning your post or whatever, is he?" Stiles asks, almost an afterthought. "I don't want my fragile human body to be collateral damage in that show down."

"Pfft," Scott scoffs. "Derek won't even know."

 

Derek, as they find out in a very unpleasant way, does know and he is very much the opposite of okay with it. Stiles was fast asleep on the floor by Scott's bed, in the sleeping bag he has had at the McCall's place since prep school when he is jolted out of sleep by a shout of alarm and a huge object falling on him. Whatever it is only hits his legs but it startles Stiles so much that he shoots up into a sitting position and immediately bangs his head against a solid object with great force. The sound of the impact is awful, and the pain the rattles around Stiles' forehead afterwards is ten times worse than that. 

"Aughh! Stiles!" Scott groans about half an inch from Stiles' face. It takes a further minute for Stiles' brain to process this information and his eyes to adjust enough to realise that it is Scott and his mattress that have fallen on Stiles. The mattress being kept from crushing Stiles' top half by Scott's defensive position above him. It's actually strangely intimate to Stiles' possibly concussed, sleep-addled mind. 

The moment is broken when Scott pushes himself, and with him the mattress, back and clear off Stiles. Which reveals the reason for this sudden and rude awakening at - Stiles grabs his phone from the floor beside him and checks the time - 3:52am: Derek. Derek is standing in Scott's room, apparently having flipped the entire freaking mattress from Scott's bed over onto poor, innocent Stiles as he slept on the floor.

"Derek, what the hell," Scott is seething. Stiles watches Scott's fingers clench and unclench in barely repressed anger, clearly trying to hold back the emotional outburst that would cause him to totally wolf out. "What is your problem?"

"My problem," Derek says. It's somewhere between a statement and a question, but Stiles can't tell which it's supposed to be. The eyebrows of sarcasm and fury are doing their freaky expressive movements above Derek's eyes like a pair of caterpillars engaging in interpretive dance. Stiles might actually be concussed right now.

"- is that you were supposed to be on patrol with Isaac tonight, not having a slumber party with your BFF," Derek finishes. And Stiles is definitely concussed or hallucinating or something because Derek just said 'BFF'.

"He had Erica with him!" 

"Yeah, and she went feral and attacked him," Derek snaps, which seems to completely stifle all of the anger and aggression Scott had been building up. 

"What?" Scott asks.

"Yeah, I am going to second that what," Stiles adds, pushing himself into the conversation.

"Erica," Derek says, "must have been infected by whatever is making the werecats feral when she was bitten. And tonight when you had her take your place she turned and attacked Isaac."

"Is Isaac okay?" Scott says, concerned.

"Wait," Stiles interrupts. "If the rage symptoms of the infection started tonight, then if Erica hadn't gone out in Scott's place she could have raged out at home and attacked her family instead, right? At least Isaac will heal, there's not really any coming back from murdering your own family."

As soon as he says it Stiles realises how personal that experience is for Derek. He'd probably feel bad about it if Derek were less of a dick.

"It might not have been time that triggered it," Derek says. "It could have been something that happened on patrol, Erica could have tried to shift and lost control."

"So you don't know," Stiles says, which only earns him a glare. And not a very good one at that.

"Isaac," Scott reiterates.

"He's alive," Derek says. "But he could be infected now, too."

Stiles scrubs a hand over his weary face. "I know someone who can help," he says. "But we might want to wait until we have a better idea of what's going on."

"Isaac and Erica are back at the warehouse," Derek says, then turns and climbs out the window.

"Seriously?" Stiles mutters. "That's just unnecessarily dramatic."

"I guess we better follow him," says Scott, who looks like a mixture of guilt and frustration.

"We should take the stairs though," says Stiles. "The last time I scaled the outside of your house you almost brained me with a baseball bat. You don't even play baseball."


	7. Chapter 7

There's an intense guttural howl as Erica launches herself at the bars of her makeshift cage. The bars clang horrifically with the brunt of her weight in a way that makes its security seem dubious at best. The undignified but entirely justified screech of surprise Stiles makes would be more embarrassing if Stiles weren't so much more grateful for not being sliced and diced in a semi-abandoned warehouse as Erica's clawed hand strikes out at Stiles so fast he doesn't even see it coming so much as feels the force of it passing scant millimetres from his chest. A narrow miss that's due largely to Derek swiftly yanking Stiles back and out of reach by the scruff of his neck.

"Thanks," Stiles says, once he's completely assured himself that his vulnerable human body is still fully intact and breaks free from the lingering, and strangely reassuring, hold Derek has on the back of his neck.

"Don't get too close to the bars," Derek says dryly in response. Which makes Stiles heavily suspect Derek finds Stiles' potential mauling amusing.

"Oh, yeah, great timing with that advice," Stiles retorts, adjusting his shirts back into place, and keeps a wary eye on Erica, completely in game face, gnashing her jaws at them and springing from her haunches to slam against the cage wall again. She almost looks worse than she did the last time Stiles saw her. And since that involved Erica bloodied and beaten and trying to keep her organs from spilling onto the road beside her, that's really saying something. 

"Where's Isaac?" Scott interrupts before things can escalate. And probably because he and Isaac have their own stupid relationship that Stiles is not a part of.

Derek leads them to the back of the warehouse where a series of small offices are set up. He actually knocks on the closed door, showing a surprising amount of manners for someone who, only hours earlier, had climbed uninvited through a window and flipped someone off their mattress in the middle of the night.

"Isaac," Derek says. And he's full of surprises today because Stiles didn't even know Derek was capable of addressing anyone without sounding somewhere between irritated and completely pissed. 

"I'm noticing an alarming lack of bars," Stiles voices his concern as Derek pushes the door open.

Isaac looks up from an actual bed -- frame, mattress, blankets and everything -- where he is reading a book, a stack of other books is piled up on a small table beside the bed.

"Hey, Scott," Isaac smiles and, almost like an afterthought, nods and adds, "Stiles."

"Hey man, how're you feeling?" Scott asks.

Stiles doesn't really mean to cock-block their very touching reunion, but he finally notices what Isaac is reading and, with no shortage of disdain, blurts out, "'Call of the Wild'? Seriously? You're actually doing the assigned reading?"

"Yeah," Isaac says slowly, and lowers the book to his bed. "We go back to school next week."

"So you're doing the reading?"

"If I turn rabid I won't have time to finish it before classes start."

"If you turn rabid you won't be going to classes anyway, dude," Stiles points out. "It's the perfect excuse not to do the reading."

Isaac just shrugs a shoulder. “I guess I’m kind of an optimist.”

“We’ll find a way to help you,” says Scott, earnest and sincere. “And Erica too.”

“I know you will,” says Isaac. And, seriously,  _ barf _ . What do they think this is? A sappy romance starring them? It’s like Scott and Allison all over again. Stiles did not sign up for that the first time, and he certainly hasn’t now, either.

“We’re going to work on it  _ right now _ ,” Derek says with enough unsubtlety that even Scott gets the hint and starts heading for the door, Stiles right beside him.

“I’ll stop by before I leave,” Scott promises, and Stiles sadly doesn’t miss the small smile and light blush that comment elicits from Isaac. 

The door closes behind them, but they’re still close enough for even Stiles’ pathetic human ears to hear Derek asking if Isaac needed anything, and Isaac’s request for some Lucky Charms. Which is interesting because who knew Derek was capable of hospitality, and Stiles really didn’t have Isaac pegged for a marshmallows-for-breakfast kind of guy.

“While you’re taking requests you can get me a breakfast burrito, too,” Stiles informs Derek when he passes them by in the makeshift lounge area on the way to what Stiles supposes must be an old staff break room kitchen.

“If you don’t shut up the only thing on the menu will be you.” Derek growls, low and kind of ridiculously. 

“That-” Stiles starts, and he’s more than a little sleep deprived and he can’t be responsible for any lack of inner filter when he says, “that had some weirdly sexual undertones. Sufficiently creepy, but heavy on the double entendre.”

“Dude,” Scott chokes out beside him. “Do you want to get eaten?”

“Well, I mean, I guess that would really depend on the context-” Stiles says, before Scott cuts him off with an elbow to the ribs and wide eyes of concern.  

“No,” says Scott. “Please stop.”

“Yes,” Derek, agrees, sounding haunted and looking absolutely mortified. “Please stop.”   
  


When Stiles makes eye contact Derek physically jerks himself away, even though they were already more than eight feet away to begin with, and his eyes are looking anywhere but in Stiles’ direction. So, really, smooth going. Stiles’ talents include making weirdo creepers who bury their own sister’s mauled torso in their backyard uncomfortable. That’s something to put on the CV.

“Dude,” Scott says, shooting him a  _ Look _ . 

“What?” says Stiles, incredulous. “Like you didn’t think it too!”

Scott sighs, and it unfairly sounds long-suffering. “Maybe.”

The room falls into silence for a long moment, only the distance sounds of Erica’s ragged snarls carrying through the building.

Derek passes them by once more, carrying a bowl of cereal, and he doesn’t break pace or even look in their direction but he lobs a muesli bar across the room that smack Stiles right in the forehead before rebounding onto the dusty floor. 

“This is not even close to being a breakfast burrito!” Stiles yells vaguely in the direction Derek has gone. It doesn’t stop him from unwrapping the bar and taking a huge bite, chewing messily.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, face scrunched up like he’s thinking too hard about something. 

“No, this stupid thing tastes like old carboard. And regret,” Stiles manages, around the mouthful of chalky, oaty mush.

“Dude, I didn’t mean that, I meant,” Scott waves his arm expansively in lieu of of actual words. “You know.”

“Oh. Given very recent events I’m still going with no, no I am very much not okay. In general or at life.”

“Your heartbeat’s going all over the place.”

Stiles sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face a few times like it will somehow revitalise him. “I think I just need more sleep. And less emotional trauma. Probably less physical trauma too.” 

Actually now that he’s thinking about it, the twinge of pain in his jaw is starting to resurface. Not the constant agony it was before, not even enough to be very noticeable, but a slight twinge every time he moved his mouth. Which was kind of a lot.

They don’t see Derek again for almost an hour, when Lydia arrives. After striding across the warehouse floor, making an expression of distaste at the lacklustre decor, Lydia places her purse on one of the crates-turned-furniture and pulls out three dark, rectangular boxes that look reminiscent of glasses cases, only slightly larger and with a press-release lock on the side.

“Alright,” she says with an emphatic clap of her hands, looking over at Derek where he lingers in the doorway like the socially inept recule he most definitely is. “Who’s first?”

If watching Derek sink his claws into Isaac’s arm to stop him healing too quickly for Lydia to take a blood sample was something Stiles wanted to never see again, then watching them tackle this task with Erica is something he wants to have permanently removed from his brain. They had to dose her with the half-kanima venom first to take some of the fight out of her; a stray bite or scratch could be enough to infect one of them as well. But the semi-paralysis was definitely not enough. Derek and Scott both had to pin her writhing, spasming body to the cold cement floor. Their claws gouging deeply into Eria’s flesh, and blood flowing thickly from the wounds. 

Grabbing Lydia’s arm from the relative safety of the cage exterior, Stiles asks, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Shooting him a confident smile that doesn’t even come close to reaching her eyes, Lydia blows him off with an, “I’ll be fine.”

It takes four attempts before Lydia can even get safely close enough to collect the samples. And each time she jumps away, putting as much space between herself and Erica’s flailing body, Stiles can feel his own panic rising even as Lydia’s self-assurance visibly decreases. 

“Guys, come on!” He yells at the werewolves. “You’ve got one job!”

Scott just grunts in annoyance as he clings to Erica’s legs. Derek snarls and grits out, “Stiles, unless you’re going to do something useful for once, shut. up.” 

“Wow okay,” says Stiles, equally offended as he is worried right now. “I am useful. I am plenty useful. I have so many uses you don’t even know about.”

“Stiles,” Lydia snaps, her hair is frazzled and she looks like she’s barely keeping it together. “Your commentary is really not useful right now. Just  _ please _ be quiet so we can get out of here.”

But it works, and everyone leaves unscathed, except Erica and Isaac of course.  And maybe Stiles is having some worrying heart palpitations, and fighting the urge to dry heave at the image of Erica, bloodied and feral, snarling as her body seized in a hideous mockery of the epileptic fits she used to have.

“Well, this has been lovely, really,” says Lydia, snapping off her disposable gloves and depositing them on a pile of debris near the wall. “But I should really get going. I’ll send a group text when I have anything worth updating you about.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “We should go too.”

Scott and Derek make plans to meet up to run the perimeter tonight, being the only werewolves left on active duty, then the three of them head out together. 

“I’d invite you to be my lab assistant,” says Lydia, giving Stiles a quick once-over. “But I’ve stumbled upon corpses in the woods who looked more alive than you do right now.”

“Okay, wow, thank you for that,” says Stiles, although it’s punctuated by him stumbling over his own feet, so she may have a point.

Lydia smiled, and for a moment it almost looks fond. “I’ll see you boys later, then,” she says and saunters over to her car, leaving Scott and Stiles to clamber into the McCall mobile.

“Bye Lydia,” Scott calls out before they go. “If you see Allison tell her I say hi. And that I miss her.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, and gives a quick affirmative wave of her hand before sliding into her car.

“And that I love her!” Scott yells, leaning out the window of his mom’s car as Lydia drives away.

“And-” he starts shouting after her car, but Stiles cuts him off, pulling him back into his seat and says, “Dude, she’s so not going to hear you. Unless she’s had a new supernatural upgrade while we weren’t looking”

“Oh,” says Scott, sounding a little dejected. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“What’s the deal with you and Derek doing the perimeter, anyway?” Stiles asks when they start getting closer to civilisation and farther from the prying ears of alpha werewolves.

“What? Stiles, you know we need to know if any Alphas or another one of the werecats is moving into town. You were there when we decided on it. You said it was a good idea.”

“Okay, I said it was an  _ okay _ idea,” Stiles qualifies. “And that was before everyone else got taken out of commission.”

Scott screws up his face in confusion. “Is this because it’s Derek? Because he’s not really been that bad lately. And we’re the only two left able to do it.”

“Not everything is about Derek. Although, yes, this is about Derek, because it’s Derek’s plan and it’s a bad plan.”

“You were there when we  _ made _ the plan. And I don’t think it’s so bad. We’ve got to work together and Derek really hasn’t been such a total dick since the whole…” Scott trails off awkwardly.

“Erica and Boyd getting wolfnapped and you forcing him against his will to bite a creepy old murderer?”

“Well, yeah,” Scott agrees sheepishly. “What’s so bad about this plan anyway? We’re only checking the the area, and we’re in pairs for safety.”

“You do remember that Erica and Boyd were together when the alpha pack took them, right? And now if you guys stumble into a trap the only cavalry that might show up is Peter.”

“Oh,” says Scott, after a pause. “This is not a good plan.”

“Exactly,” Stiles nods. “You guys are probably gonna die tonight.”

Scott looks sufficiently concerned.

Stiles isn’t really worried about anything happening to Derek and Scott on their little romp around the woods. It’s probably no more dangerous than usual. Which, admittedly, isn’t that safe. But they’re werewolves and Stiles is pretty sure Scott will throw Derek under the bus again if things get murdery again. He even offered it as a suggestion to Scott before he headed back home for dinner that night. It’s a strategy that’s been proven to work, so even if Scott seemed a little reluctant about it, he’ll probably do it again if comes to it.

He keeps his phone, ring volume on high, on his bedside table just in case, and manages to fall asleep early for the first time in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who is still reading this fic after an unexpected 4 year hiatus. I'm back now and whoever is reading this, please know that I appreciate it very much. <3


End file.
